


The Ones Who Are Bound

by Konstantinsen



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Battle, Camaraderie, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Knights - Freeform, Knights Hospitaller - Freeform, Knights Templar, Middle Ages, Mongol Empire, Slavery, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2020-06-25 09:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantinsen/pseuds/Konstantinsen
Summary: Jaune was one of the lucky ones. Spared by the Tartars for his usefulness, his goal was to survive for as long as he can until he could rid himself of their yoke. Neither did he expect to climb their ranks nor did he expect to end up lording over someone like him. [Mongol Empire/Medieval AU]





	1. Stroll in the Market

Jaune Arc had a mind to keep walking past the commotion taking place in the middle of the encampment. Today was one of the few days where he had no tasks to fulfill for his liege and he intended to exploit that freedom by doing things for himself. He had just filled up his pail with water from the creek running through the camp so he could start cleaning up.

That was until a curious turn of his head froze him in his tracks.

The Tartars had returned from their raids with a small group of captives. One of them, his heart screamed, was too precious to be defiled by these bloodthirsty heathens. By the time he squeezed through the throngs of buyers, the Tartar captain had already put forward the 'best for last.'

Jaune knew too well that this remaining slave girl would not last under the circumstances he himself had gone through. So he did the only thing that seemed rational at the time.

He bought her.

He raised his voice, threw out a price so astounding that it shocked the other buyers and even the captain. Jaune knew too late what he had done and quickly made up his mind. He took the risk and set down his pail to haggle against his competition, putting down nearly all of his savings, until the Tartar captain reluctantly acknowledged his offer. Jaune promised to deliver the payment later in the day to which he was handed the chains, the key, and his prize.

He found himself standing rigid among a disbelieving crowd, realizing now what he had done.

A slave owning a slave. Never in his life had he considered becoming one. Himself a slave, Jaune toiled, bargained, and bled to achieve his standing among the Tartars; where he was deemed too valuable to be discarded among the front line fodder of his heathen overlords. If his parents ever found about his circumstances—or, God forbid, his sisters—then they would probably be shocked to know that their only son was actually still alive and then absolutely horrified that he was now a weapon wielded by these rampaging hordes from Tartary.

“P-please, d-don't hurt me,” the slave girl squeaked.

Jaune gazed down at his purchase. In his right, he carried his pail of water while his left grasped the chain that led to the binds on her hands and feet. Seeing her broke his heart.

Short dirty hair, reddened at the tips. A face mired in grime, eyes glistening with tears. The shackles around her wrists rattled with how much she was trembling. Her finely tailored dress had been reduced to muddy rags. It was probably the only thing she owned.

The girl curled her toes inward as her tiny feet trudged against the jagged gravel. Her shoulders shook with her head dipping to hide her fear.

She was crying again.

Jaune felt his throat dry up. He had acted on impulse to save this girl from a fate worse than death. He had risked his life and everything he attained by stealing her away from the cruel Tartars vying for something fresh and unsullied. Even as he led her away from the market, he felt the glares of his overlords boring into his skull. His heart pounded faster and faster the more he passed throngs of Tartar warriors and his fellow battlefield fodder, everyone throwing him looks that would have made melted iron.

Finally, he had reached his tent near the outskirts of the encampment. His own little shelter that he had rightfully earned through his hard work. It was a modest home; smaller than the yurts of the Tartars but wide enough to house a fire pit and his properties: his beddings, his food, and his tools. Despite their brutality, his overlords generously rewarded those who served admirably within their ranks and Jaune had little regrets for saving the lives of one too many important Tartars in the heat of battle.

“I-I'll be a g-good s-s-servant,” the girl mourned. “I'll d-do whatever y-you want.”

Jaune stared at her.

Lord above, she reminded him so much of his sisters. His heart couldn't take it.

“Stop,” he ordered.

The girl caught her own breath. She stiffened, wide-eyed.

Jaune took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Until he mustered the strength to fully comprehend her fragile form with his own eyes. And the first thing that struck him were hers. Her eyes shone back at him like molten nickel. She was trembling before him, biting her lip, her tears still flowing from the fear that gripped her whole form.

So this was what it was like to own a slave. Now to behave like a slave owning a slave.

“What is your name?”

“Ruby, s-sir.”

Jaune took in the faded floral embroidery sewn into her dress. Patterns of roses, tulips, and carnations decorated the hem of her garment, once bright with colors now faded from dirt and muck. That seemed to confirm his guess of where she came from. “ _Magyar_?”

“ _Igen_ , _uram_.”

So she was Hungarian, a native Magyar. Her family must have had some standing to afford her a dress that colorful. The poor girl. She was one of the lucky ones. Jaune tried to ignore the memories of what he had seen during the Tartars' rampage throughout the Magyar Kingdom, much less what they had done when they rode into the Rus' village he had been staying in two long winters ago. Bodies upon bodies, heaped upon the ashes...

He cleared his throat. “Sit.”

Ruby glanced at his rug and eased down to rest on her knees, her hands obediently set on her lap, the cast iron cuffs being the ugliest thing on her person. She had calmed herself down at least.

Jaune rummaged through his knapsack until he found the rag he used to wash his face with. He brought his pail close as he knelt before her, moistened cloth in hand. He reached for her chin.

Ruby tensed. Her breath once again hitched in her throat at his touch.

He brushed away loose strands of her hair and wiped off the dirt from her cheeks. The action alone surprised her and left her gawking at him, her fear supplanted by uncertainty. Her pupils—Lord, they shone like silver—followed his every movement until the water in his pail ran dark with the filth that he had thoroughly cleaned off her face, neck, arms, and legs.

Jaune sat back and was rewarded with the most beautiful creature he had laid his eyes on since his capture on the banks of the Volga. Heaven forbid, his heart leapt at the mere sight of someone so pure.

“How old are you, Ruby?”

“Fifteen, sir,” she answered tensely.

Just like his younger siblings. He had stopped praying a long time ago but a part of him wanted to mutter a soft petition to the Lord not to forsake his family as He had forsaken him. “Can you cook?”

She bit her lip, glancing away.

Okay. That was fine. The Tartar diet was simple to prepare. “Never mind that then. Can you clean?”

Ruby nodded hesitantly.

“That's good enough. Keep yourself busy and out of sight of the others. Stay close to me always. Understood?”

She nodded again.

“Okay.” Jaune clapped his hands and looked around his tent. Other than the ashes spilling out from the fire pit, everything was in neat order. Then his eyes landed on the basket tucked underneath where he had hung his bow, quiver, and saber. Those tools saved his life as much as they sustained him on a peaceful day. He would soon have to teach Ruby how to use those. “ _Ett_ _é_ _l m_ _á_ _r_?”

“ _Mit_?”

“Have you eaten?”

“N-no.”

“That's okay.” Jaune fetched the basket and fished out the chunks of salted meat intended to last him for another day. He sliced off small pieces on a tin plate and handed it to her. “Here. It's not the best but it's good enough to keep you going for the day.”

Ruby stared at him. Her hands tingled with the hem of her dress while her eyes bounced between him and the food that he was offering her.

“It's okay. I won't be mad. I didn't buy you to starve you,” he insisted, cupping her hands and squeezing the plate between her fingers.

Ruby stared at him again before she dug in with gusto.

Jaune watched her eat. Desperate but refined. The Tartars undoubtedly fed her the bare scraps for goodness knows how long before they threw her out into the market with the other slaves. He made sure that she would not indulge herself too much lest her weakened body reject her sustenance.

“Slow bites. Take it easy.”

Ruby obeyed. Bit by bit, she consumed what would have been his lunch and dinner for today. But that didn't matter. He could always get his share from the quartermaster. For all their evil, the Tartars had proven to be field the most organized armies he had ever known. A wise commander refused to let his soldiers starve, no matter their ilk. And the Tartars had many wise commanders.

Jaune wondered whether or not he gave up his hard-earned place among the Tartar soldiery by stealing this girl away from them. His heart beat faster at the consequences. Ah, but consequences be damned for the sake of this girl. If it meant saving Ruby from the worst of them, then let his head roll on the block. Their loss. The Tartars begrudgingly admitted that he was a good servant and a fine soldier.

“ _Köszönöm_ ,” Ruby said. “I-I mean, _e_ _z nagyon kedves tőled_ _, uram_. Ah, uh, th-thank you, m-master.”

He held out his hand. “Please, don't call me that.”

“But I'm y-your servant now.”

“I'm not your taskmaster.”

“Um, wh-what do you want me to call you?”

“Call me Jaune. My name is Jaune.”

Ruby blinked. Her fear had gone now. Instead, she raised a confused brow. Well, better that than her being constantly terrified of him.

“Jaune?”

“Yes,” he answered with a smile. “Jaune. Jaune Arc.”

“That...does not sound like a Tartar name.”

“Do I look like a Tartar?”

“No. You don't.” Ruby tilted her head. “You're not a Tartar. You don't even sound like them. Why are you fighting for them?”

“I didn't volunteer if you're asking me that.”

“So...you're just like me.”

“Yes.” Jaune sighed, setting aside her empty plate. “My family hails from Champagne but most of my life I spent in Masovia.”

Ruby was silent. Curiosity completely displaced her fear.

He continued. “I was not one to stay in one place for long so I took my leave to find my fortune elsewhere. It was exciting while it lasted. Then one wrong choice led to one wrong turn and, well, wrong place, wrong time.”

“And so you got yourself captured?” Ruby chuckled. Then, as immediately as she giggled, she clasped her hands over her mouth in abject horror, cuffs rattling. “I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to laugh—”

Jaune chortled. And her hands fell from her face to her lap. Her lips stretched to her cheeks and she let out a soft laugh. That grew louder. As did his. And they laughed at each other.

“Okay, so I admit that it was a mix of me being stupid and me trying to be a hero that got me into this mess,” Jaune said with a shameful grin. “As long as it's me and not my sisters.”

Ruby's smile faltered. “Huh. Yeah.”

He caught himself and asked, “You have...I mean...your family?”

“My father and my sister. I know they're alive out there and I hope they're alright.” She let out a heavy sigh, raising her wrists to jingle the cuffs that were beginning to leave nasty marks on her skin. “I hope they're not in this same state as me. I hope they escaped from these...men.”

Jaune wanted to ask her more about her sister but decided against it. Ruby was clearly uncomfortable with the topic and broaching it would probably lead to her thinking about her captivity. He reached into his satchel and felt for the key to her binds. He wanted to get those ugly steel rings off of her, to set her free, to restore what had been taken from her.

He took her hands, shaking her out of her stupor, and felt for the keyhole. In a moment, it was over. Her wrists were red and sore but they were no longer bound. As were her ankles. The cuffs fell with an audible noise and she rubbed at her skin, speechless at what he had done.

She snapped her head at him. Then at the key that he unceremoniously dropped in front of her. The smile he gave her was natural, warm, true.

As was the sudden hug she gave him.

Jaune was taken aback at this girl who had thrown herself on him. Her arms were around his neck, her head over his shoulder, tears soaking his tunic as she openly wept her many thanks. Something inside him burst and he wrapped his arms around her to let her release herself fully to him.

She thanked him in the language of the Latins, and in the language of her people, and in the language of his people. And she refused to let go until he pulled her off him.

His cheek felt damp and he brought up his hand to wipe it. Only then did he realize that he, too, had been crying.

The both of them formed the growing number of European slaves indentured to the Tartars. Against his comrades, he had become one of the lucky ones. As did Ruby. But how long would his fortunes hold? For him and for her?

Sooner or later, his liege would find out about his purchase and would likely make demands. Or the envious buyers might attack him in the night and steal her away. He could be ordered to sally forth on a raid and be the first to be gored on the spears of the desperate Hungarian defenders.

“I won't let them hurt you,” he told her. “On my word as an Arc.”

She smiled the warmest, widest smile. “Thank you. Jaune.”

With her hands in his, he made a vow to himself. The Tartar lords Subetei and Batu were dispatching riders deeper into the lands of the Hungarians to plunder and destroy, and sending vanguards further west to scout the other kingdoms to ravage. As slaves to these murderous heathens, they were bound to follow and obey. Be as it may, wherever they would be taken—through the twisting landscape, over the ruins of mighty cities, past bloody battlefields that would rival Lignica and Muhi—Jaune would see to it that Ruby was safe.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 8, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 6, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 9, 2019**

**NOTE: I've been playing _Civilization III: Conquests_ again recently. I was playing as the Mongols.**

* * *

******Translations:**

_**Igen** _ **,** **_uram_. = Yes, sir. [Hungarian]**

_**Ettél már** _ **? = Have you eaten? [Hungarian]**

_**Mit** _ **? = What? [Hungarian]**

**_Köszönöm_... _E_ _z nagyon kedves tőled_ _, uram_. = Thank you... That was very kind of you, sir. [Hungarian]**


	2. Bedfellows

Ruby Rose had shown to be inexperienced as a servant. Other than a bit of clumsiness in cleaning up his tent, she knew little to nothing of how to properly handle his tools; she nearly snapped the string on his bow, almost lost all his arrows when she accidentally undid his quiver, and came close to spoiling the only food they both had.

Yet Jaune could not bring himself to be mad at her for these faults. While her age and behavior were of no excuse for her ineptitude, he found it difficult to so much as raise his voice higher than a lion's growl. That and her secret weapon that Jaune discovered much to his chagrin: her devious use of her adorable puffy face. Those wide silver pupils threatening to burst into tears, her quivering lip, and a teeny tiny voice spouting honeyed words...

Lord above, he could not resist.

The worst (and only) punishment he ever gave her was helping him muck up the dung of the horses of his liege. Ruby hated it as much as he did; after all, the four-legged beasts unashamedly loosed the most horrendous heaps of refuse with no care in the world for where they were or what they were doing. But the job needed to be done and his master Dur'qatai Noyan was busy commanding other Tartars to bother with tending to his own steeds.

“Jaune,” Ruby squeaked, tugging tight at his sleeve as she suddenly pressed herself to his back. “I think they're looking at me.”

Jaune turned his head to the group of mounted Tartars plodding along the perimeter. It appeared they were joining up with one of the raiding parties that were setting out. The way they regarded him and Ruby was unnerving and despite his time spent with these people, he was not entirely used to their scathing glares.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered, snaking a firm hold on her wrist. “Don't look at them.”

Jaune kept walking past, tugging Ruby along, his head locked in the direction of his tent.

“ _Numan_!”

Lord above, help them. Jaune stopped dead at the angry voice that boomed out his Tartar name. He breathed deep, pulled Ruby closer to his side, and angled himself towards his master. Dur'qatai plodded towards them atop his horse with the air of a wolf sniffing blood.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To my tent, _noyan_ ,” Jaune answered neutrally. “Is there something you need me to do?”

Dur'khatai did not seem to be in a pleasant mood. The narrow leer he gave Ruby made Jaune twitch. The horseman noticed this and grunted. “Do not leave camp. You and her.”

Oh, good. An order that he obeyed by habit. “Yes, _noyan_.”

Jaune and Ruby watched the Tartar officer gallop to his men. They heard him issue a string of orders before they rode off with a large body of riders out the camp.

Jaune tugged at Ruby. “Come on, let's go.”

“I don't think he likes me,” she muttered.

“I still don't know if he even likes _me_ ,” he admitted. “We should get to work before anyone notices us being idle.”

She readily agreed and the two of them busied themselves with whatever tasks that needed to be done. Doing nothing within the Tartar camp was an invitation for trouble and Ruby understood that as much as Jaune. Thankfully, with having little to do other than caring for his master's horses and raking in the heaps of refuse, the next few days went without incident.

* * *

Jaune was helping Ruby wash their clothes by the stream outside camp when Dur'qatai returned. He did not see the horsemen gallop in but he could hear the commotion from across the entire encampment. It was always a noisy affair when a raiding party returned with loot to share, and today sounded no different. Ruby, though, was immensely curious and Jaune could not fault her. He had seen and participated in more than enough raids to not give much of a damn.

“Ruby, it's best if you let them be,” he sternly ordered, tugging at her to sit back down on the rocks so they could finish their laundry. It was mostly his laundry but over the past few weeks since he purchased her, he invested for her an extra dress, a pair of shoes, a hat, and an old coat and those he handled; he had been rigorously scrubbing off the mares milk that Ruby had spilled when she tried to curdle them into cheese yesterday.

“But I want to see!” she insisted.

Jaune sighed. “Fine. But first, help me get our clothes out of the water.”

They lifted their garments, worn and ragged from extensive use, from the stream and heaved up to their tent to hang them outside. Then, sticking closely together, they walked to the center of the camp where a crowd had gathered, no doubt haggling for a fair share of the goods.

Jaune walked to a spot not too far from the Tartars that offered a discernible view of what was going on. Even then, and despite his considerable stature, he had to raise his chin up high to see properly. Ruby hung onto his side as she was a full two heads shorter.

“What do you see?”

“They're distributing...grain and jewelry, it looks like... Some food wrapped in cloth, I think...and I think that's...”

Jaune stilled as the crowd assumed a sort of orderly grouping that made it easier to peek through them. In the middle of the camp ground was a small band of people, bound in leather and iron. Captives. Slaves.

“Oh no,” Ruby gasped.

He made to shield her eyes and turn around towards their tent. “Come on. We're done here.”

“But—”

“Ruby, we should go.”

Ruby cast him an uneasy look. Conflicted. He could read her thoughts. She wanted to be there to see with her own eyes the unfortunate new additions to their community of the shackled. Then again, did she really want to be among throngs of Tartar warriors who, weeks ago, were pining for _her_ when she was on the market? Even after she was firmly recognized as Jaune's property, she still found herself the target of many a passing leer.

With another tug, Jaune finally got Ruby to budge. They both meandered through the town of yurts to the edge of the camp where his tent was. Along the way, they were met by a dismounted Dur'qatai, leading his horse by the reins.

“ _Numan_ ,” he called out. “Where are you going?”

“To my tent, _noyan_ ,” Jaune replied. He offered his hand. “Shall I take your horse to rest?”

“Yes. Continue on with your duties.” With that, the Tartar officer handed him the reins and melted into the crowd of buyers.

The two slaves noticed the bulging knapsack hanging off Dur'qatai's back next to his quiver. It was tied by a long black ribbon that ran down to the back of his knees.

“Hey, Ruby. This way,” Jaune said.

The horse whinnied and neighed but it obediently followed them back to Dur'qatai's yurt where Jaune and Ruby tended to it, along with the other five horses tethered to a wooden hitching, until their master returned.

* * *

“ _Numan_!”

Jaune stood straight as did Ruby at the approach of the Tartar officer and his coterie of subordinates, all of whom were in reasonably high spirits. The two slaves stiffened in surprise at the girl being pulled along among them.

Dur'qatai stopped before the door to his yurt and gave the young Frankish slave warrior and his Hungarian servant an uncomfortable smile. “Now you have another companion.”

Jaune and Ruby were wide-eyed and quiet when he thrust into Jaune's hands the rope that led to the bindings on the wrists and ankles of another slave girl. Unlike many of the other captives, however, she possessed an air of defiance. Her charcoal black hair ran long and unkempt down her back while her eyes burned a fiery amber. She adopted a dirty yet unbroken scowl, standing as tall she could to show she was unwilling to bow any further than she had been forced to.

“She has a strong spirit,” Dur'qatai sniggered. “You are better at taming her than I am. Teach her how to behave in my stead. If she misbehaves, then Yassa will be on my side to have your heads hang from my lance.”

Jaune watched his master and his men disappear into his yurt to drink and be merry. He stared back down at the rope, then to Ruby, then to the girl with black hair and yellow eyes.

He could not find the strength to smile to break the tension. “Um... _Magyar_?”

The girl narrowed her eyes at him, her scowl turning into a glower.

“That's a 'no' then. But you do understand me. Right?”

Again, a cold glare.

“I think that's a 'yes'?”

Her silence began to gnaw at him.

“Look, I'm in the same boat as you are. If you're not going to say anything, then I'll assume you're paying attention. If not, then...things will not end well for us.”

The girl appeared to be unconvinced, responding with a roll of her eyes.

This had the effect of depleting much of Jaune's patience. His voice came out harsh this time. “Do you want to survive, woman?”

“Jaune?” Ruby interrupted. “Maybe I could try?”

Jaune stared at the diminutive Magyar girl. After screwing up so many times with the most basic of responsibilities, could he really trust her with something like this? “Can you?”

Ruby blinked at him. She was offended. And he was remorseful.

“Oh, Lord. I'm sorry, Ruby. I didn't mean—”

She ignored him and instead focused her attention on the taller slave girl. She mustered a small smile and waved modestly. “Uh, hi? Hello? Um, my name is Ruby. And this is Jaune.”

The girl remained tightlipped though her face softened.

“You can understand me then. Right?”

She stared.

Ruby nodded slowly. “Okay. _Potestis intelligere me_?”

The taller girl blinked in surprise. She bit her lip and that was enough of a response that Ruby needed to engage in full Latin conversation with her. Or rather, she unleashed an unrelenting barrage of excited dialogue in the hopes of pushing the other side to open up and talk for once.

Jaune would admit he was surprised to see Ruby actually pull something off like this and so he let her chatter away until finally the girl did speak. And according to Ruby, her name was Blake Belladonna. She was from a notable family in Lombardy. She was not fond of talking very much, especially to strangers, but she did like to read and fancied some rather interesting topics of literature.

It took another couple hours, the loosing of her bindings, and convincing a very intoxicated Dur'qatai to grant extensive privileges to all three of them for Blake to trust them enough to open up to them herself. First to Ruby, then to Jaune through Ruby, until she expressed her direct thanks to Jaune for his unexpected kindness. Come dusk, he ended up moving his things in his tent to make room for another resident.

That was half of his living space and leg room given away but least he had another person to help out with managing his master's growing number of horses and trophies.

* * *

“We're doing the right thing,” Ruby muttered to him later that evening. She dragged herself over to his side of their dwelling and was practically resting against his ribs. As she did on most nights. “We saved her as you saved me.”

Jaune angled his head on his pillow to give her a tired look. Then he glanced across the remains of his fire pit, past the lone candle Ruby had lit, to Blake resting on her side, her back turned towards them, her form steadily rising and falling.

“You'll take care of her, right?” Ruby asked him.

He looked down at her again to find her adopting that hopeful look that always melted his heart. In truth, he was frustrated with how things went. It took a full year for him to establish himself in a position where he was no longer a daily candidate for execution. Then suddenly, he saddled himself with a responsibility that had him struggling to feed, protect, and care for another one like him. Now, he had a third person thrown his way by his enigmatic Tartar liege.

Could he tell that to Ruby?

“I will,” he said, “I'm doing my best here. For you and for me.”

“But what about her?”

“I'll try.”

That satisfied Ruby enough that she beamed up at him and snuggled close to his chest. It had been a paralyzing experience the first time she did that, on her first night as his...servant. Over time, he had grown accustomed to it and while he preferred to have separate beddings, Ruby would be as stubborn and on most evenings, she opted to retire close to his side.

Jaune exhaled as he laid back down on his pillow to stare up at the ceiling. His thoughts came swirling, denying him sleep by reminding him of how slim his chances of survival were becoming. The Tartars respected him, yes, but they did not particularly like him. Dur'qatai kept him around because he was good at his job as a slave. A part of him believed that even Subetei Ba'atur himself favored him enough to ensure he was spared any more cruel treatment within the Tartar army. That and he invoked Yassa every time he felt threatened.

The Tartars feared Yassa as much as the world feared the Tartars. That much he knew.

Rustling.

Jaune craned his head. His bed companion had already drifted off, silently breathing against his arm. He brushed away errant strands of her hair, admiring her mask of purity. Soothing. Calming. A reminder of better, warmer days.

Sigh.

He eyed Blake across from him. She was awake and had turned to lie on her back, her amber orbs studying him. Silent and sly as a cat.

“You care for her,” she said softly.

“I do,” he replied in kind.

Blake nodded. “That's noble of you.”

“Thank you.”

The Lombard smiled at him for the first time.

Even in the dying wicker of the candle, Jaune could tell it was a sad smile. Fragile, even. There was some regret in there, he could see. “Can't sleep?”

“Thinking too much,” she answered.

“Likewise.”

Silence.

“Our master has my things,” she said.

“Your things?”

“I have a bag with all my personal belongings. It's tied by a black ribbon.”

Oh. That one. Spoils of war, what can you do? “I think I saw it. He...won't let it go that easily.”

A defeated sigh. “I know... There are things in there that are precious to me.”

“I can understand that. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.”

“I can try and get it back for you.”

“No,” she hissed, panic flashing in her eyes. “Please, don't risk yourself for my sake. It's just things. I can get replacements for those.”

“But I thought they meant so much to you?”

“No, please. You don't have to go through the trouble for that,” she begged him.

“Won't stop me from trying,” he replied with a cheeky grin. He had gotten away with a few things, often right under from Dur'qatai's nose and most times, when his master found out, he waved his hand to show he either cared less or was about to invoke Yassa. “I'll be fine. So will you.”

More silence.

“Jaune?”

That was the first time she used his name. “Yes, Blake?”

“Do you...” She glanced away for a moment before tilting her head at Ruby. “Are you doing all this...for her?”

Jaune glanced away. “... Not just for her.”

“Do you...love her?”

Where did that come from? What was she going on about? She could have asked anything other than that yet she chose that specific query. His response was a hundred other questions that were itching to leave his throat. But he was tired and his mind demanded rest. He sputtered for a bit before replying, “I care for her very dearly.”

Blake hummed. “That's good. Goodnight, Jaune.”

“Goodnight, Blake.”

She turned once again on her side and was silent.

Jaune reached over and blew out the candle, endeavoring not to wake the girl asleep against his body. He stared at the darkness that was his ceiling for what felt like minutes. Blake had been implying something and he was not in the mood to entertain those implications. That did not stop him from inching down to peck Ruby on the forehead.

“Goodnight, Ruby,” he whispered before closing his eyes and forcing himself to sleep.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 11, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 6, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 12, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

 _**Numan** _ **= Arc/Arch [Mongolian]**

 _**Potestis intelligere me** _ **? = Do you understand me? [Latin]**


	3. Master's Ire

Blake did better than Ruby with their daily tasks so Jaune felt comfortable with having her guide the younger girl through her blunders. This freed up precious time that he could spend on attending to Dur'qatai's properties, getting enough rations for the three of them, and keeping the other Tartars off their backs. Contrary to the girls' concerns, it was not so cumbersome a workload so there was much idle time for himself.

On his own, he would either entertain himself with whatever he could find, such as learning to play the two-stringed lyres that the Tartars favored, or earn extra coin by assisting with the communal labor around the entire encampment. On some days, he would train. Jaune was among the few slaves with veritable martial skill after all and he would rather not risk being dispatched to the battlefield without adequate preparations.

Recently however, he had been kept in reserve. Perhaps due to Dur'qatai's influence or the fact that he had made a good enough impression on the Tartar leadership that they saw in him something worth protecting. Jaune never really knew.

Now that he had two girls in his company, he began to truly value these moments to himself.

With Ruby, he had a squeaky, blundering chatterbox who made for warm, much needed company. Given her circumstances, she took up most of his time and attention.

As for Blake, he found in her an able companion of his same age who could do the chores and help him with his tasks to satisfactory standards. She was silent for the most part...until she started asking questions. Jaune figured that in the absence of any Latin-script books, the Lombard resorted to learning what she could with what she had...or who she was with.

The Tartars barely kept any written records and whatever copies the three of them had access to were written in that Oriental script that none of them could understand.

Alas, Jaune ended up holding conversations with Blake about anything that piqued her interest. She remained guarded however of her personal life so the most he knew about her was that she left Lombardy to pursue...whatever it was that she was pursuing with like-minded company. He was about to ask for more details when she diverted the topic.

“So nobody really knows how Yassa works, huh,” she said as she was helping him put together another quiver for Dur'qatai's arsenal.

“No one's ever written it down as far as I'm aware,” Jaune replied.

“Then how do they know about it? How do they know the rules, how it works, the punishments for each offense?”

“I have no clue. They just know.”

Blake paused in thought. “What do _you_ think Yassa really is?”

Jaune shrugged. “To be honest with you, I don't know exactly. But there are parts that are pretty basic: don't steal from others, don't abuse your privileges, don't make fun of the Tartars. Punishment is usually death.”

“Death?” she spurted with an indignant raise of her brow.

“Yes. Death. Even for stealing the smallest thing, you could be sentenced to death. It wasn't always the case though but the consequences are just as harsh.”

“Huh. And I thought the Church was harsh.”

“Well, the Church doesn't have you executed for not picking up after the guy in front of you.”

Blake made a sound that expressed her disgust. “That's...too much... Even from where I'm from.”

“Oh, it's much worse all the way east,” Jaune snorted. “In the heart of Tartary, you were lucky if your punishment was death. Even then, you were luckier if your execution was quick.”

The Lombard cringed. “Do I want to know?”

The Frank stopped his work to give Blake a blank stare. “Do you want to know?”

“Perhaps another time. We will be having lunch soon.”

“Well, I'm hungry anyway. Where's Ruby?”

“Right here!” And the diminutive girl appeared with a large basketful of salted meats and dry cheeses. “This will last us for a week!”

Jaune gave her a flat look as did Blake. “No, it's not. Ruby, did you go to the quartermaster by yourself?”

And like that, Ruby froze, her celebratory smile cracking to one of fragile guilt. “Um, I, uh...I got us food, right?”

Lord above, he was afraid this would happen. He snapped a sharp glare at Blake. “I told you to accompany her at all times!”

Blake snorted. “She's old enough.”

Ruby stomped her foot. “I'm old enough!”

Jaune wanted to wring their necks. “And the Tartars? Did they see you? Did Dur'qatai see you?”

“The marshal did,” the Lombard answered.

His hands froze. “The...'marshal?'”

“The marshal. Subu'adei.”

The Frank choked and nearly dropped the half-finished quiver. “Subu... Subetei? As in, Subetei _Ba'atar_?”

“Yeah, him,” Blake deadpanned, picking up the remains of their work and setting it aside. “Not as intimidating as I thought he would be even with his guards.”

“He was...nice,” Ruby eased.

Jaune felt his jaw drop. Oh, ye women of great innocence, great apathy, and great stupidity! Given Ruby's shyness, Blake's bluntness, and their unbelievable lack of awareness, he was half expecting a detachment of Tartars assembling outside his tent, demanding their heads for slighting the great Subetei.

“When was this?” Jaune practically screamed. “What did you do!?”

Blake took his arm to keep him seated. Or to stop him from wildly flailing at them. “ _Mistesce_. We went a few hours ago. Ruby had a small accident that the marshal didn't think was that serious.”

He felt his heart stop. “... What?”

“Yeah,” Ruby added apprehensively. “He didn't seem angry.”

“I don't think it was that bad,” the Lombard continued. “Ruby only spilled a skin of milk onto his boots.”

Jaune nearly fainted.

* * *

This was bad.

This was worse than bad.

Then again, this could not be as bad as he thought it was.

“Will you please stop pacing around and sit down?”

Jaune glared at an irritated Blake. “Oh, I'm sorry. Was my worrying about our potential executions bothering you? My sincerest apologies, _Signora_ Belladonna.”

“Jaune,” Ruby whinnied. “You're scaring me.”

“Please,” the Lombard pleaded. “Sit down. Subetei probably forgot about it.”

“Are you sure about that?” he shot back.

Ruby shrunk behind Blake who frowned and snagged his sleeve, forcing him to stop and stare down at her.

“Jaune, if he behaved that benevolently towards us, then I don't think there should be nothing to worry about.”

He scoffed at her. “Nothing to worry about? Blake, we are talking about Subetei here. Subetei _Ba'atar_ , the man who planned the destruction of entire armies at Tursko, Chemelnik, Opole, Lignica, Mohi. His lieutenants burned Sandomiria and Cracovia to the ground!”

Blake and Ruby stiffened at the mention of the two cities. Even before their capture, they knew the fate that had befallen those places.

“These are the Tartars,” Jaune ranted on. “They're not like the Bulgars or the Normans or the Papal knights. The three of us have seen firsthand what fresh hell the Tartars are capable of inflicting. We were spared any more of that hell for this...this bearable purgatory. I don't want us to be thrown back into that hell.”

The girls gawked back up at him. Silent. They knew he has right. They had to. It was common sense after all.

“... You can't really know that,” Ruby argued.

“Ruby—”

She cut him off. “You can't really know that, Jaune.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. She stood up to challenge him...which was not as effective as she thought it might be given how he towered over by two full decapitated heads. Regardless, silver burned up at him with fists clenched and lips taut.

“I'm afraid of the Tartars as much as you are,” Ruby began. “As much as any of us are. I'm not even going to hide the fact that I'm the most afraid of them. But I don't believe that they're all evil. You and I have seen that they're people just like us. They eat, sleep, laugh, play, and have families of their own who they really care about.”

“They are killers,” Jaune argued. “I have seen with my own eyes what they have done. They have made me do what they have done.”

“And I'm not disputing that.” She took a moment to breathe. “I spilled milk on _Nagy_ _ú_ _r_ Subetei's boots. His guards drew their swords on me and Blake. He told them to stand down, knelt in front of me, and smiled and said something nice. I couldn't understand. But he pulled a rag from a pail and wiped his own boots. Then he helped me up, gave me more coin to buy us more food, and left.”

The Frankish slave warrior felt the words dry up in his mouth. Is that what actually happened? He only knew Subetei in passing. From occasionally standing at attention while the Ba'atar inspected them to chance encounters within the camp while running errands for Dur'qatai. As for the man himself, he knew only sparse details as the Tartars were secretive about their strengths.

Ruby took his hand with a pleading face. “I want to have hope. I don't want to be always be afraid. I don't want to wake up every morning thinking that I'm surrounded by demons. They're not. They're still people. People who do demonic things.”

Before Jaune could say anything, Blake interceded with her hand on his shoulder. “Think about it. Subetei holds you favorably. And by extension, us as well. To him, it's probably a minor transgression. Not worth the effort to make an example of.”

“A minor offense, huh,” he breathed.

She nodded. “If it was that serious, then we'd have all been dragged outside hours ago.”

As displeasing as it was to think about that scenario, the fact was that nothing had indeed happened. Yet. Feeling slightly tempered, he edged to the door of his tent and took a peek. Empty. No angry mob, no hungry crowd. Just business as usual. Perhaps he was thinking too much about this.

“Fine.” Jaune exhaled and sat down by the fire pit. “Be careful next time, okay? And don't you ever go to the middle of the camp alone again.”

“Ruby and I can manage,” Blake said.

He rubbed his hands over his face until he could feel his fingers pulling through his hair. What a stressful day. “Okay. I believe you.”

The Lombard smirked. “Thank you.”

Ruby threw her arms around him and muttered her thanks right into his ear. Jaune, having been used to this behavior of hers, completed the embrace. Over Ruby's shoulder, he caught the sad, near tragic, smile that marred Blake's facade from cheek to cheek. Her lips were wound in an upward curve yet her eyes bore a longing for something similar. It was a face that he was growing tired of seeing on the Lombard.

Perhaps it was that bag with the black bow on it. He decided to try and get it back for her as soon as he could.

* * *

Dur'qatai was in a sour mood when he summoned Jaune to his yurt later in the afternoon.

“You are testing my patience, _Numan_.”

“My apologies, _noyan_.”

“You are fortunate that Subugatai _Baghatar_ was in a good mood today,” snarled the officer. “You could have cost us both!”

Us? There was an 'us' in there? Jaune resisted the temptation to snipe at his liege. “Yes, _noyan_.”

“Do you even understand the gravity of what those girls have done?”

He very much did. Hence why he had been panicking earlier about a situation like this. “I understand, _noyan_.”

Dur'qatai glowered at him from where he had been seated cross-legged before his own fire pit. Jaune remained standing, straight-backed and his hands neatly folded behind him. “You are different among the others, _Numan_.”

Oh? Was that a compliment from his normally vulgar, uncaring master? Then again, despite what little time he had in his service, there was little he let on about himself.

The officer gave off a tired sigh. “Subugatai has taken a fancy to you. I will not deny that you are a talented fighter and a capable steward. But sometimes you are too stubborn and too stupid to realize what you are getting yourself into.”

Well, this was an interesting experience. He had never been lectured by a Tartar before. For most of his time in captivity, he had either been tortured, thrown about, forced into labor, and pressed into military service while he was passed from master to master until he ended up owned by Dur'qatai Noyan, who had at the time recently arrived from the east to assume command of a small band of soldiers. Even then, in the five months he had been under his thumb, Dur'qatai barely expressed any form of concern for him.

What was bringing this on?

“By order of Subugatai _Baghatar_ , one _ming'khan_ of reserves will ride with us tomorrow morning. You will be among them.”

Jaune blinked, sputtered, and almost lost his posture.

“Surprised? I know I am,” Dur'qatai remarked. “Make your preparations. Get your armor and your arrows from the quartermaster. Take only what you need.”

“Y-yes, _noyan_.”

“Qir'gajin _Noyan_ will be leading us. Ride close and obey his orders. Other _kharash_ will also be joining so you will not feel alone.” Dur'qatai smirked. “Perhaps you can talk them into behaving like you.”

“I will try, _noyan_.” Jaune felt his heart beating faster than the drums of an excited pagan priest. It had been a while since he last took part in these bloody raids. His training and experience could only do so much to keep him sharp and he still wallowed in the guilt of his crimes. And then there was the thought of leaving Ruby and Blake behind...

Dear Lord above, what would happen to them while he was away?

Could this all be a ploy? To have him killed as King David had to Uriah the Hittite in the Biblical chronicles? The girls would be on their own. Blake would have to pick up after him and that included keeping away from some of the other Tartars in the camp.

“Worried about your darlings, eh?”

They were his _dear friends_ , you heathen dog! “I hold them in high regard, _noyan_.”

Dur'qatai sniggered. “Yes, I can see that. Especially that young one. _Badma'arag_ , her name was?”

No. No! Leave Ruby alone! Leave Blake alone, too! Jaune wanted to scream at him but he did not want to have his throat slit.

The officer read his discomfort and shook his head. “Rest easy. You purchased her fairly so who am I to take her away from you?”

'You are my master and you could simply cut me down right here and have Ruby and Blake dragged over here by your subordinates.' Jaune bit down on his tongue to keep from repeating those words in front of him. Instead, he ended up spouting out, “You respect me.”

Dur'qatai snorted. “To a point.”

“What then can I do to earn more?”

The Tartar sized him up. “Nothing more than diligence. That is, unless you are willing to make an exchange.”

Jaune watched his master reach behind him and drop the bag with the black ribbon between them. Blake's bag.

“Do not think I did not notice what that other girl was after,” Dur'qatai said. “I was disappointed because I was expecting something valuable in here. It is worthless to me now.”

The Frank eyed the knapsack. So his master found it worthless. Blake's personal effects were in there and Dur'qatai had seen them and decided it was bad loot. “If it is worthless to you, may she have it back?”

His master flashed him a smirk that sent shivers down his back. He snatched the bag back by the ribbon and tossed it behind him. “You will ride with us tomorrow. If you do well enough, then I might consider returning it.”

The Frankish slave warrior felt both relieved and afraid. He should have seen this coming. Conniving bastard. Ah, well, anything for Blake. And Ruby. Even if it was going to cost him. There was no going back now. “Are there any other details of this...raid, _noyan_?”

The officer made an amused grunt. “We will not take long. Ten days at most. I will inform you of the rest tomorrow. Prepare your things. And inform your women of your, eh, unfortunate absence.”

Jaune did not like the sound of that. Regardless, he endured the discomforting laughter coming from his liege when he was dismissed. As soon as he marched out of the yurt, Jaune hurried through the winding maze of hovels towards his own. A brisk walk turned into a full sprint and by the time he reached his tent, he had practically burst through the door, nearly tumbling inside. Blake and Ruby squealed and dropped the basket they were weaving together.

Apparently, he had come upon them in such a haggard state that both girls practically shot up from the floor to help him sit down.

“Jaune! What happened? _J_ _ó_ _l vagy_?”

“Hey, take it easy. What's going on?”

Jaune could barely formulate words, his mind consumed with worry over his charges. Cradling his arm was Ruby Rose of the fragmented Magyar kingdom, a girl of fifteen years who was a lamb among wolves. Beside him, dabbing a dry rag on his sweaty forehead, was Blake Belladonna of distant Lombardy, a woman of his age who was brave enough to bare her chipped fangs. Both would be at the mercy of the entire camp tomorrow.

He trusted no one else here, not even his fellow slaves and slave warriors, to watch over them. He only had the vague assurances of Dur'qatai that the entire Tartar army pledged full obeisance to Yassa. And for the past month, Yassa was the only shield he had. For all his accomplishments and his budding reputation, he was still an expendable pawn. Forgettable in the end. Replaceable.

Yassa kept him alive for over a year and it was, to the best of his knowledge, the only thing keeping Blake and Ruby alive as well.

“I need a drink,” he choked.

Blake fetched him a cup and Ruby filled it up to the brim with fermented horse milk. It had the right sour kick to knock his brain back in order.

“Feeling better?” Blake pressed.

Jaune nodded. “Yes. Thank you. There's something that... It's... It's something you both need to know.”

Panic flashed in Ruby's eyes. “Is it because—”

“Ruby,” Blake interjected. “Let him talk. Jaune, what is it?”

He emptied his cup and stared at the floor. “... I'm not going to be here tomorrow...”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 11, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 6, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 14, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

 _**Ba'atar/Baghatar** _ **= Hero/Lord/Champion/Commander/General/Knight/Valiant [Mongolian]**

 _**Mistesce** _ **. = Calm down. [Latin]**

 _**Nagyúr** _ **= Sir/Lord/Grand Lord [Hungarian]**

 _**Ming'khan** _ **= Mongol military unit comprising 1,000 men**

 _**Badma'arag** _ **= Ruby [Mongolian]**

**_J_ _ó_ _l vagy_? = Are you alright? [Hungarian]**


	4. Careful Concern

Dinner was difficult to stomach.

Not because of the food—the Tartar diet was relatively simple and nutritious. For the half hour they ate, the three of them barely could mutter anything worth discussing. Blake said grace as per her habit growing up in Lombardy while Ruby only muttered soft grunts that sounded more akin to a forlorn puppy mewling.

Jaune finished his meal first then quickly stepped outside. More to escape the uncomfortable silence than the burgeoning heat from the fire pit. The evening breeze blew against his tunic and he numbly wandered around his tent, listening to the noises of the rest of the camp and counting the lit fires shining through the many yurts of his overlords.

“ _Numan_.”

Oh Christ on a tree. The Frank straightened his back in the face of his master approaching from the darkness. “Yes, _noyan_?”

Dur'qatai entered the firelight, sporting his common scowl. “Are you prepared?”

“To the best that I can be, _noyan_.”

The Tartar grunted, unimpressed. “Your bow?”

“Taut.”

“Your arrows?”

“Numbered and sharp.”

“Your sword?”

“Never dull.”

Dur'qatai stepped back to regard him whole. His scowl deepened. “Where is your armor?”

“In my tent, _noyan_.”

“Did you wear it?”

Jaune nodded. “It fits me well.”

The officer grunted. “I do not see a mount anywhere. You were not given a horse?”

“No.” Was he supposed to have been accorded one? The Frank had figured himself below the average Tartar so any horses that he was supposed to use were to be provided by either his master or the commander in charge of the unit he would be attached to. Unless the lamellar armor meant he was deemed worthy of his own steed, could it? “Am I to be provided my own?”

“You will be,” Dur'khatai huffed. “You will take one of mine.”

“Thank you, _noyan_.”

A noise resonated through the fabric of Jaune's tent. Ruby squeaked, something fell, and Blake's muffled voice filtered through. The Frank turned to the Tartar to see him smirking.

“So, _Numan_. Did you tell your women?”

The Frank bit his lip. “Yes.”

Dur'qatai nodded. “Do they understand?”

Was his master actually expressing some form of concern? It was hard to tell, given how skillful the Tartars were in the art of deception both in and out of battle. In addition, he knew very little of Dur'qatai outside of his position of authority as a low-ranking commander despite the months that he had spent as his servant. “... They are trying to understand, _noyan_.”

“Do they know...that they will be subject to others when the worst will happen to you?”

“They are trying to understand that as well, _noyan_.”

Dur'qatai tapped the bag hanging from his belt, the long black ribbon—Blake's ribbon—keep it sealed and tied off into a knot. “Remember our agreement. I honor my word.”

Jaune doubted he did. “Yes, _noyan_.”

The Tartar sniggered then strolled past him.

He was several paces away when the Frank called him back. “ _Noyan_!”

Dur'qatai paused in his step, only his silhouette visible in the dark. “Yes, _Numan_?”

“May I know what where we will be going tomorrow?”

“Somewhere where you are needed.” The tone in his voice made it clear he was not willing to entertain anymore similar questions. “Be awake before dawn.”

The Frank nodded emptily. “Yes, _noyan_.”

* * *

Ruby had tripped across the fire pit, scattering ash and charcoal everywhere. Blake had helped her clean up. The former apologized repeatedly until her sorries morphed into disjointed sobs that led to her breaking down completely.

When Jaune went back inside, he found Ruby weeping into Blake's arms.

“Ruby?”

The Magyar pushed herself off of the Lombard, sniffling and wiping away her tears. “ _Nagyon sajn_ _á_ _lom_! I'm s-sorry, J-Jaune... I tripped a-and...”

“Hey,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Hey. It's okay. I'm here.”

“You won't be,” she wept, melting into him. “Y-you'll be g-gone tomorrow!”

Jaune glanced up at Blake who mutely observed them with an unreadable expression on her face. “Hey, Ruby. Listen to me.”

The Magyar held her breath.

“I made a promise to you, remember? I made a promise to you and Blake.”

In the corner of his eye, the Lombard straightened in surprise. Amber orbs went wide, her mouth hung agape, her neatly folded hands smoothed over her lap.

Jaune continued, “I made a promise to keep you both safe. And I will keep that no matter what. I may not be here but know that I will do my damnedest to survive and come back here to see to the both of you.”

A quiet moment passed.

“H-how?” Ruby asked.

“That's for me to worry about,” he answered. “Blake may be older than you but I trust the both of you to look after each other.”

He eased her from him and he stood to kick the dirt back into the fire pit. Then he stooped low between them and swept them up in a tight embrace.

“You two are precious to me. You're my only family right now in this world.”

Interestingly, it was Blake who leaned on him. He felt her press her forehead against his cheek while her hand came up to his back.

“Likewise,” she purred.

Ruby followed suit. Whatever she tried to say came out in indiscernible phrases. It didn't matter though. Right now, he held his two friends close to him. Jaune cherished this moment.

* * *

Ruby dragged her cot over to where he lay. It was her habit.

Jaune let her press up against his side, lay her hand over his chest and breathe into his arm. In minutes, her soft snores tickled his skin while a bit of drool soaked his tunic.

“Goodnight, Ruby,” he whispered with a light peck to her forehead. It was his habit.

“She really cares for you,” Blake intoned.

The Frank gazed across the room to the Lombard. The candle she lit in place of the lifeless fire pit illuminated that same sadness that had often marred her graceful mien. She seated herself on her cot across from them, silently watching as she habitually did when she had nothing to do.

Jaune waited for the barrage of questions that she would usually pelt him with almost every night when Ruby had fallen asleep. He waited for a brief minute. And another. And another. Until the silence became rather uncomfortable and he was about to say ask his own questions when she spoke up.

“She loves you.”

He nearly choked on air. “Wh-what?”

Blake breathed deep, shaking her head. “You are thicker than oil on water, aren't you...”

“What are you saying?”

“She loves you, Jaune.”

“I...what...I mean she, uh...”

“I was always wondering if you reciprocated her feelings,” she said, staring at the embers crackling in the ash-strewn fire pit.

The Frank finally gathered his thoughts and stared at the Lombard. “Are you saying that...Ruby is...she's...”

Blake shook her head. “Are you really that dense, Jaune?”

“... What?”

She let out a strangled noise. “Have you ever had someone fall for you?”

Jaune opened his mouth yet had nothing definitive to say. His attempts at wooing ladies in the past were futile, his father's 'steel-forged advice' shattering under the heavy blows of rejection. Since departing for the Rus', he had abandoned the bare notion of women falling for him, no matter what his sisters said. They were only trying to make him feel better in the wake of being passed over by a lady he had been infatuated with. In the end, the only response the Frank could come up for the Lombard with was a resounding stutter.

“You really are clueless.”

“Not entirely,” he defended.

“Do you believe me when I say that she loves you?”

“I...” Jaune paused to breath. He stopped caressing Ruby and was now staring at her serene face resting against his side. Now that Blake brought it up, he was beginning to see the diminutive girl in a new light. Yet it was hard to comprehend it. “I...think I do...perhaps?”

“You know how she is,” the Lombard continued somberly. “She can't stomach the thought of you leaving her alone. She's grown attached to you.”

“Because I told her to stay close to me always,” he echoed. “It's my fault she's feeling like this. It has to be.”

“It can't be that.”

“I bought her, Blake,” he deadpanned. “It was a thoughtless act brought on by panic. I didn't want her to suffer under the hands of the Tartars.”

“We're all suffering under the Tartars,” she countered.

“I didn't want her to be...taken advantage of.”

“And you did the same for me.”

Jaune craned his head towards her. “I care for you too, Blake.”

Blake glanced away, biting her lip. It could have been the candlelight that poorly painted her cheeks a brighter shade of red. “I know. Thank you.”

The Frank shuffled to sit up but felt Ruby tug on his chest. He carefully snuck his arm over her shoulder to tap her on the back. The Magyar snuggled a little, deep in the bliss of sleep to be mindful of their conversation. “How can you know?”

“There are...things that others can pick up on.” Once again, the Lombard refused to meet his gaze. “Ruby...is more open with certain details about you...when you're not around.”

Jaune grunted. Yeah. His sisters did that all the time; talking about him behind his back. Not as a form of malice against him but more out of their 'concern' over him. “Right. I see your point.”

“I hope you address Ruby about this soon before...”

“I know, Blake. I know. It's...not easy for me now that you've mentioned it.”

“I just...” She exhaled into her palm. “I don't want her to experience any more pain.”

Not the pain that you've been through, Jaune wanted to say. He was not dumb. He had known Blake for three weeks now and despite her reserved nature and her guarded questions, growing up with seven sisters enabled him to read her easily as a book. The Lombard had been through some personal struggles and still had her demons about her. It was plain on her face; the sad smiles, the thin lips, the apprehension and the longing in her eyes whenever he caught her staring at him and Ruby occupied with a chore together.

“Do you...want to talk about it?”

Amber orbs flashed at him. “About what?”

“I won't be here tomorrow,” Jaune eased in. “I hate to say this but this is probably the last night I would be spending with the two of you. I...I might never see you again. So...if you need to get something off your chest—”

“No.”

He clamped his jaw shut. Blake was scratching her arm.

“I...don't want to burden you.”

“Blake...”

“Jaune,” she muttered weakly. “Please, I don't want to distract you from your duties. You'll be going out to fight. I...don't want your mind to be distracted.”

She was not wrong there. Jaune felt the need to press her to let go of whatever it was that was making her like this. “I can't say I would be fine. But I will try my hardest to get back to you both as soon as this is through.”

For the first time since he met her, he saw panic. And pure fear. The exotic control she displayed, the defiance she showed towards the Tartars evaporated on this night. Her voice was soft and cracked. “... They'll use you as a human shield.”

“It's not the first time.” It was standard practice among the Tartars. They even had a name for people like him: _kharash_. Shields, basically.

“You'll die.”

“I might.” Yet he survived and was rewarded for it.

“You won't be here for us. For her. For me...”

“Not for long.” He glimpsed her movements from the corner of his eye.

Her hands played with the hem of her dress and she kept her attention to the rug. “Jaune, I...”

He waited. And waited. He moved his head only for Blake to seize the candle, blow out the flame, and turn on her side to settle back to sleep.

“Goodnight then,” Jaune said in the pitch blackness. He heard nothing until the darkness whisked him back to those horrifying dreams of the Tartars pillaging his hometown.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 15, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 7, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 18, 2019**

* * *

********Translations:** **

****_Nagyon sajn_ _á_ _lom_! = I'm really sorry! [Hungarian]** **


	5. Marshal's Favor

It was still dark when Jaune woke up. Ruby had rolled off of him sometime in the night and was snoring softly, her hair askew and her limbs sprawled haphazardly over both their cots. Across from them, Blake was modest in form, her hands resting by her sides with her chest serenely rising and falling.

He remembered that in the next few hours, he would be saddling up with a thousand other strangers from the Tartar army. He had spent more two winters with these people and to this day, he knew no one more amicably than the two girls living in his tent and his liege who was most likely expecting him to be in full regalia after breakfast. So he quietly folded up his blanket, caring to leave space for Ruby to toss about, then strode outside to stretch his legs and let the morning air chill him awake.

The winds of the Great Hungarian Plain blew across him, sending shivers up and down his back. The hairs on his hands stood on end and he felt his heart race at the cool autumn air. In the distance, he could see the mountain snow creeping down to the hills.

At around this cycle of the year, most armies in the West would postpone campaigns and set up winter quarters to rest in warmth like the wild animals north of the Volga River. The Tartars were unlike the West. They were from the distant East. And they warmed themselves with the fires of cities they razed. For a minute, he envisaged brief memories of a Christmas spent in chains, shoveling ash and severed limbs amid the embers of the Rus' principalities. He shook his head to stave off the nightmare.

Jaune gazed across the whole of the encampment, counting the tasseled Tartar banners that hung high and proud. He did not know what the wily Subetei Ba'atar had planned but he had an idea that two thousand men sallying forth meant either a concentrated assault or a massive diversion.

Footfalls padded lightly on the threshold of his tent. Behind him, Blake leaned against the door to his tent, wrapped in her blanket with her head protected by a shawl.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

“Morning,” she croaked back. Blake was always the earliest among them. “How are you?”

“A little chilly.”

She gave a small nod. Her eyes flickered to the mountains beyond the Tartar yurts. “This raid. This isn't like the other ones that you've been in?”

“No.”

“Is this going to be a big raid?”

“The biggest I'd be a part of.” Jaune dug his arms into his pockets while Blake wrapped the blanket tighter around herself at another gust of autumn wind. “Honestly, this is shaping out to be another battle.”

“You can't possibly be sure of that.”

“Normally we numbered about five or six hundred, usually one of us for every Tartar warrior. The raids were quick and sometimes, we only had to bring back tribute without so much as a single word of protest. It wasn't always burning and pillaging, you know.”

The sun began to crest over the horizon, coloring the skies in bright tangerine shades. All across the canton, the Tartars were waking. Their morning rituals echoed between the yurts. Horses snorted and whinnied amid the scraping of tools and the barking of voices. Jaune breathed deep and trudged over Blake.

“Don't worry too much about me,” he assured her. He rested his hand on her shoulder to show how much he meant it. “I'll be fine.”

“You can't promise that,” Blake morosely said.

“I can't but I will do my best. In the meantime, watch over Ruby.”

“She's old enough. She's not that much of a child.”

He peeked across her shoulder to glimpse at the girl in question. Ruby twisted to her side, smacking her lips in slumber. “No. She's not. But she will have to grow up fast.”

“I know,” the Lombard sighed, leaning unexpectedly onto his shoulder. “Jaune, I...”

Jaune kept a hand on her shoulder and the other on her arm. The weight of her head on his chest nearly tipped his balance. “Blake?”

“Thank you...for being my friend.”

“I still am.”

She withdrew from him, glancing away to wipe at something in her eye. “Yeah. You're right. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Um. You're welcome.”

The wind picked up again, rippling through their clothes. Jaune trudged to the doorway with Blake. Inside, they both could see Ruby cuddled into herself. Warm. Pure. Hopeful at best.

“... Ruby will be devastated,” the Lombard remarked.

The Frank sighed. “I can't do any less than that to her.”

Blake hummed. “You know how she is towards you. You mean the world to her.”

“Yeah.”

“It's because of her that you're looking after me as well.”

“Blake, please. That's not what—”

“Without Ruby, if Dur'qatai didn't... _buy_ me... If you were there at the market when I was brought in...would you have been any different?”

“I...” He had no good answer to give her. Honesty would hurt and, despite her own irritative faults, Blake had become someone as special as Ruby. He would have hated to see her in despair and he would be damned if she would despair over something he said. “I don't feel right to say.”

Blake was quiet for a moment.

“I'm sorry,” he threw in.

“No, no. It's fine,” she choked. “I know we've only come to know each other over a short amount of time but... Know that I care for you, Jaune.”

He gulped. “I care for you too, Blake. As much as I do Ruby.”

“That's good to know,” she answered beaming lightly. “We should get some breakfast. And you should put on your armor.”

“Yeah. Hope this stuff isn't as itchy as chain mail...”

* * *

The mass of men and mounts assembling on the outskirts of the canton was truly a fearful sight. The Tartar force was splitting into organized formations of tens and hundreds, adorned in their suits of Oriental armor, sporting their fine bows and sharpened lances, rallying around black banners flying proudly overhead. Horses whinnied and neighed while their riders clicked their tongues and snapped the reins to maintain order within their ranks.

Jaune took in the sea of horsemen, his heart thumping in his chest and sweat beading down his forehead. Two thousand strong amassing to snuff out a stubborn pocket of resistance in the rugged lands of the defeated Magyars. It took about the same number to route larger armies. This many soldiers hinted another uphill battle that many of his ilk would not survive.

“I'm going to miss you,” Ruby said, handing him the cone-shaped helmet that came with his suit of arms. “Take care.”

The Frankish slave warrior welcomed her embrace, taking her in fully, rubbing circles on her back and laying a soft peck of his lips upon her forehead. “I will.”

Silver eyes beamed up in forlorn hope. “Arc's word?”

He felt his throat dry up. Arc's word that he would not die? He looked past her shoulder to Blake standing a few paces away, hands timidly folded before her lap. The expression on her face was something that he thought he would not see on a woman of her fire: tragedy.

The Lombard once again had a sad smile.

“Arc's word?” Ruby pleaded.

Jaune paused to calm his nerves. He did not want to lie to Ruby. He also lacked the confidence to assure her that he would make it. His mouth disregarded those concerns. “Arc's word, Ruby.”

Then he turned to Blake who averted her gaze.

“Arc's word, Blake.” He trudged over to her, ignoring her surprise, and wrapped his arms around her.

He felt Ruby's hand snake around them both. The three quickly sealed each other in a wide embrace.

When Jaune released himself, he saw Dur'qatai standing not too far behind leading along two horses. The Tartar was unashamedly smug.

“ _Numan_ ,” he said, handing him the reins to a stallion that the three slaves were familiar with. “Yuse likes you enough. Do not get him killed.”

“Yes, _noyan_.” The Frank clicked his tongue and the horse, Yusehol, reciprocated with a whinny. The beast recognized its caretaker, letting him run his hand down its mane. “I didn't think you would carry me into the field, Yuse.”

Dur'qatai saddled up easily with a grunt. “We will return soon.”

Jaune, Ruby, and Blake craned their heads at the mounted officer.

“We will return,” the Tartar repeated. “As long as every man is careful and knows their duty. Come, _Numan_. Qir'gajin _Noyan_ is not one to wait.”

“He can wait for another hour,” echoed an aged rumbling voice.

Dur'qatai stiffened atop his mount. As did Jaune. Blake and Ruby stilled, faces hard as stone, as the four of them turned slowly around and carefully acknowledged the presence of the senior marshal of the Tartar army. Subetei Ba'atar strolled casually towards them, bare of his imposing armor yet adorned in the finest silken robes befitting of his rank. What he lacked in guards this morning, he made up for in the curved blade strapped to his hip of which he was unmatched in skill.

“ _Baghatar_!” Dur'qatai saluted.

“ _Ba'atar_ ,” Jaune mimicked, startling Yuse a little and nearly causing him to tumble onto his master.

“ _Ba'atar_ ,” crowed Blake and Ruby who remained rooted where they stood, ramrod straight, eyes forward, and arms clasped neatly below their chests.

Subetei waved his hand. He spoke in that indiscernible tongue of the Tartars, a vernacular that Jaune, as a slave, was forbidden from learning, and, despite his best efforts to the contrary, could barely understand. The Frank sat between his master and the marshal who made quick conversation. The latter then turned to him and asked, “Are you prepared for the task?”

“Yes, _ba'atar_.”

Subetei nodded. “Good.”

Jaune felt his breathe hitch in his throat when the marshal faced his two charges. Blake inched her hand close to Ruby's, interlacing their fingers and squeezing.

“And you both. How are you today?”

“We are doing well, _ba'atar_ ,” the Lombard answered politely.

“What are your names?” Subetei inquired.

The Frank could feel the sweat dampening the reins to his horse. He silently mouthed a prayer to the Lord who had forsaken him to guide the girls' tongues. One wrong move, one ill-thought remark, and the three of them would be scalded alive—

“My name is Ruby Rose, _ba'atar_.”

“I am Blake Belladonna, _ba'atar_.”

Subetei seemed tickled by their responses. He let out a soft chuckle and glanced his way. Once again, he threw a few words in that rooted Tartar language to which Dur'qatai responded in kind. A quick sentence later and the marshal abruptly approached the Frank.

“ _Numan_. Yes?”

“Yes, _ba'atar_ ,” Jaune answered with enough calm to steel his nerves.

“I have heard much of your diligence. I am certain your women are of the same capability,” Subetei said with a gesture at the two girls. Judging by the looks on their faces, they understood what he meant.

“We do our tasks to the best of our ability, _ba'atar_.”

“Well, if that is as you say, then I shall expect no less from these two.”

Jaune had always heard of Subetei's mastery of deception in and out of the battlefield. How the wily old commander managed to conceal some of his guards in plain sight, he could not fathom. What he found terrifying and difficult to comprehend was the fact that these guards, clad in the lacquered scales of the Oriental armies, appeared out of nowhere and suddenly flanked Blake and Ruby, standing within an arm's length away from snatching them up.

“You have nothing to fear for their safety,” Subetei assured him with that uncomfortably warm smile. “I will await your healthy return.”

“Yes, _ba'atar_.”

Dur'qatai and Subetei exchanged parting words with the former nudging Jaune to follow him to the rallying point. The Frank had his head craned over his shoulder along the way, keeping his attention to Blake and Ruby, surrounded by the still smiling Subetei and his elite guard, until they were out of sight.

“Relax,” the Tartar officer grunted. “Be grateful that the _kheshigud_ are looking after them.”

Right. The vaunted kheshigs, the elite guards of the Tartar lords, were now protecting Blake and Ruby. Undoubtedly on the orders of Subetei himself.

Jaune stilled his beating heart. He was away from the girls now; he was here in the presence of so many of his ilk. Around him flew numerous black banners; one for every ten men, another for every hundred, and a great magnificent standard for the total thousand, all announcing the might of the Tartar force riding out to claim what they saw was rightfully theirs and raze all those they despised.

Pairs of eyes lingered on him, Oriental faces leering at the Westerner among them. Many expressed their contempt, others spared him no pity. The Frank ignored them, having accustomed himself to this treatment. Soon, Dur'qatai stopped before a standard-bearer hefting a tasseled pole, surrounded by seven other men.

Jaune knew who they were. And he knew that these Tartars who ate, drank, and debauched with his master had no sympathy for him, a slave who survived enough encounters to be counted among them. Then again, their silence towards him was perhaps the best respect he could ever be granted. His reputation did exceed him.

“Behave yourself,” Dur'qatai ordered.

The Frank nodded. He slipped on his helmet and took his place at the furthest end of the line, the newest addition to the unit. No matter what the others thought of him; he was one of them now. Time to set his mind to the task. Focus.

Jaune breathed in, counted from one to five, then breathed out.

His grip on the reins tightened as he listened intently to Dur'qatai's instructions. He had blocked out every distraction in his mind, suffocated every vestige of whatever Christian conscience his mother hammered into his head, reserving only the tingling memory of Blake leaning on his shoulder and Ruby resting in his arms.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 16, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 7, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 27, 2019**


	6. Friendly Company

Despite her steely mien, Blake Belladonna was as brittle as a clay pot.

With Ruby squeezing her hand and her own heart beating faster than a galloping horse, Blake was not sure how long she could keep up her facade. Even now as they were escorted by ten of the Tartars' own elite guard into the heart of the encampment, into the ornately decorated yurt of the greatly revered Tartar commander Subetei, the Lombard was struggling to still the trembling in her legs.

She took in her surroundings. All around them were scattered treasures gained from the vanquished foes of the Tartars. Saracen tapestries and Oriental pottery filled nearly every corner of this massive, decorated yurt. In a more lavish fire pit, sliced portions of veal boiled in a black pot. The pungent spices made her stomach churn.

Ruby tugged at her wrist.

The Lombard regained herself from her musings and sat on her knees with the Magyar before the marshal.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Subetei greeted.

Humble, indeed. Blake bit down her retort and instead bowed low with her the edges of her long black hair touching the rug. "It is an honor, _ba'atar_."

Beside her, Ruby tried her best not to mess up something as simple as a bow.

"Now, now. No need for that formality," the marshal dismissed. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Blake righted herself, tugging at Ruby who gracelessly sat back up with a squeak.

Subetei, his warm 'fatherly' smile never wavering, poured them both cups of the Tartars' favorite beverage: fermented horse milk. "Here. A strong drink to start one's day, if I am one to say such."

She bowed again and took a sip, savoring the mild intoxicating kick. Strange. Instead of the milk's characteristically sour flavor, she tasted strong stings of honey. Blake glanced to check that Ruby was not downing her entire portion in one gulp. To her relief, the younger girl took modest sips; Ruby was not one to exercise restraint when it came to sweets or milk.

"It has been said that you are as dutiful and diligent as your caretaker _Numan_ ," Subetei said. "Such behavior is rare these days what with many preferring to hunt than to tan the hides they have gathered."

Blake nodded along.

"Where are you from, Blake?"

"Lombardy, _ba'atar_."

"Ah, yes. Is that place not the thorn in the underbelly of this, ah, Holy Roman Empire as many have said? Or perhaps I am conjecturing."

She felt her breathe hitch at the his knowing smirk. The marshal clearly knew more than he let on. Did he really know this much about her home? Could it be that the troubles and the struggles of the Lombard League were so widely known that even the Tartars were keen about it? Or was he making an educated guess? She knew Subetei to be a very perceptive and very smart man, traits that made him a powerful foe to the European armies. Could he see his enemies this far?

"Conjecturing, _ba'atar_ ," she deflected.

Subetei chuckled. "Perhaps. What about you, young Ruby? Where are you from?"

"Strigonium, _ba'atar_ ," Ruby answered politely.

"Ah. The home of the Magyar kings, yes?"

"Yes, it is."

Blake caught the predatory gleam in his eye and her heart raced.

"A beautiful city by the river. And a beautiful stone castle built on a hill, yes?"

Ruby nodded, sipping more and more of that honey-laced drink. To see her repeatedly wet her lips on the bowl until it was empty was making her uneasy. It was probably the honey; Ruby loved sweets as much as she loved milk.

"I hear the harvest is bountiful this season," the marshal remarked.

"It was," Ruby replied quickly, pushing her empty bowl forward. "Lots and lots of wheat and grain. Even the vegetable and fruit farmers were carting in so much produce. I'd never seen the storehouses so full in a long time."

Subetei chuckled along as he poured more milk from the skin. "I am sure they have so much food now that they can last the winter without importing from the other cities."

"Yes. Even after the king fled, our liege lords have been keeping us well fed and protected. Mostly. They do try. Better than the king..."

Blake caught on. Her eyes bulged and she stifled the gasp that nearly escaped her throat. Her hands remained planted on her lap even though she itched to grab Ruby and stop her from disclosing too much information.

"Your lesser lords must care more for you than your king."

"They do, honestly," the Magyar continued, her bowl once again half empty. "I understand why the king gave refuge to the Kun but he favors them over his own people. He gave them land and money that was meant for us just so they could fill up ranks in his army. Well, we can fight too!"

The Lombard remained firmly seated. She knew that Subetei was keeping a close eye on her and she did not doubt his skill with that sheathed sword that was sitting on his lap.

"The king has walls made of stone that protects him. Us? We couldn't afford any. The dukes paid for our walls," Ruby prattled on. "They're not as good as stone though and some of the wood is rotten. Most of the palisades at home could be blown down by the wind on a bad day."

Blake mentally screamed for Ruby to stop. She could clamp her mouth over hers but then that would earn the ire of their host.

"Those are bad walls. They can stop arrows but they cannot stop the wind?"

Ruby sniggered. "A horse once broke free and smashed through the palisade. Wood went flying everywhere. Poor horsey was running amok in the streets for hours."

"Oh? And what of the guards? Did they chase it down?"

The Magyar giggled. "They were stupid. They chased after it." More giggling. "They were tripping over their own spears. And then they were tripping over each other!"

Blake bit her lip to still her terror. Subetei was beaming now. Thank God she only took a few sips. Ruby on the other hand was squeaking with laughter. For the third time, the younger girl set down her bowl and the marshal emptied the skin into it.

"Some of them can't even ride horses! The really good soldiers are off protecting the king or hiding in the swamps. The duke's men aren't as bad but a lot of them are just stupid. Stupid boys. Stupid spears. Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

The Lombard watched Ruby ramble on, now lost to the spirits of the drink. She stole a glance at Subetei who met hers with an unsettling grin.

"Quite the child, this girl."

Blake gulped. "She's not a child anymore... _ba'atar_."

"Neither are you, Blake," the marshal countered. His old eyes bore down on her and his lips thinned to a predatory mien. "I value intelligence and discernment. You are a smart young woman. Your behavior when you were first brought here amused me and your guardedness over young Ruby here in the absence of your master impressed me."

"I am only trying to survive, _ba'atar_."

"Then you are wise enough not to challenge your betters. Wiser than your contemporaries, at least." Subetei craned his head to regard the Magyar girl who had enraptured herself with one of the images sewn into an Oriental rug draping from an overhead beam.

Blake could expect no hope now from Ruby. The younger girl was too far gone in a haze of laced honey and inebriating milk. She was on her own before the commander of the Tartar army.

"You should know by now that we do not share the mercy of your Holy Roman Empire or your Christian Pope."

She began to understand why Jaune feared Subetei so much.

"Consider my words a compliment to your father. He had an honorable intention when he rallied a force to protect against the army of your Holy Roman emperor. Unfortunate that many of his followers were blind zealots."

Her heart stopped. How did he know all this?

"Do not mistake me for an old man who cannot see beyond the horizon."

She realized it. Subetei had spies. Spies as far as Lombardy. Spies farther than the western borders of the Holy Roman Empire. Spies in Normandy, Aragon, Castile, and the rest of the realms of Francia and perhaps even as far as Britannia. Spies that knew of her family's influence in the League of the Lombards and their plight against the Second Federicus.

"A strong symbol, this black flower. It is like a fire, a burning passion. Such influence in Lombardy and beyond. Your father has done well as a man of power. A shame that with that power he wields, he was not able to save his only daughter."

A pained breath escaped her lips.

"Tell me, Blake. Do you love your family?"

"Y-yes," she whimpered.

"Yet you ran and took up arms with your zealot friends. Such a path has led you here. In chains. To my abode." Subetei hummed while he put away the empty milk skin. "Ghira and Kali miss you."

Her eyes watered at the mention of her parents' names. "Wh-what do you want, _ba'atar_?"

Subetei Ba'atar sat upright with his shoulders squared and hands planted firmly on his knees. The hilt of his sword sat tantalizingly close to his wrist. "Behave."

"Be...behave?"

He nodded. "Behave yourself in your dutiful service."

And her family would be spared, he did not that. That much Blake could discern. Those unspoken words broke her. Her self-control cracked and the tears flowed. She bit her quivering lip to keep from mewling too loud. Through her pain, Subetei smiled while Ruby wobbled about, laughing drunkenly at her own reflection on a large silver platter.

* * *

Jaune had once believed that his destiny in life was either to farm the land as a serf for some Teutonic Knight or be levied to serve in the army of the Holy Roman Empire. Or if the Lord smiled upon him, he would have been entered into a monastery to rewrite aging manuscripts while saying grace every hour. Such were the paths trod by his friends before he left to find his fortune in the East.

Oh how the Lord spited him for His amusement. Oh how thick the irony was that it was not even funny.

Here he was: a Frankish adventurer who escaped the fate of many a European boy in Western Europe only to end up with the fate of many a European boy in Eastern Europe. The biggest difference was that he was the pitiful villain of the troubadour's song.

The horses had been plodding along without ceasing for hours under the sun, crossing streams, rolling over knolls, and rounding quagmires of marshland freezing over from the oncoming winter. They were nearing the end of the Great Hungarian Plain with the unconquered fiefdoms laying in wait beyond.

Dur'qatai stopped suddenly.

Jaune squeezed his hips together, bringing Yuse to a stop. The rest of the unit had already ceased to move along with the hundreds other horsemen surrounding them. Over his master's shoulder, he saw the large black standard of their overall commander Qir'gajin Noyan hefted high, signaling an end to the march.

Being at the front, Jaune could see why.

"There they are," Dur'qatai announced, pointing to a mass of dots galloping over the horizon.

Jaune could see those black tasseled standards bouncing over their heads. Reinforcements. Another two thousand troops to augment their force, bringing their numbers up to four thousand. As far as he was aware, they were from the army of the Tartar prince Batu up in the north.

The Frank squinted to get a good look at their 'comrades.' Unsurprisingly, many of them were captive soldiers like him, sitting atop borrowed horses and adorned in hauberks, jerkins, and old mail. They were equipped with swords and lances; fitting for a headlong attack into the first line of defense and suited to soak up the defenders' arrows. Such were the roles of the Tartar's 'vanguards.'

A unit rode up to them as the two hordes combined. Led by another Tartar and comprising a handful of foreigners like him.

Jaune was mum for most of the engagement. His master conversed with Batu's noyans, leaving his subordinates to mingle with the other troops. That left Jaune idling with eight other men who barely understood the language he was using to communicate with his master. The air between them was suffocating until one of them plodded away with nary a word. The rest followed, leaving him be.

The Frank was about to follow after them when he eyed another rider from another unit who bore a very European face. It was not much of a surprise but given how few captured Europeans survived being fodder for the Tartars. Still, Jaune could not turn away from someone as noticeable as him.

"I see you staring," the gruff rider remarked.

"Apologies, sir," Jaune replied with a polite nod.

The man had over a decade's worth over him yet was adorned in almost the same amount of equipment: lamellar plates, Tartar helmet, Tartar bow, and even a curved saber likely looted from the Saracens.

Before he realized it, Yusehol had plodded over to him. Jaune was now face to face with this man who bore an unkempt stubble and a grizzled face pocked with piercing red eyes.

" _Kharash_?" the man asked him.

The Frank nodded. "You?"

"Likewise. Where are you from?"

"Reims."

The man raised his brow in intrigue. "Reims? So you're from Champagne, eh? Never expected to see a Frank here."

"Neither I you, sir. If I may ask, where are you from?"

"Strigonium."

Jaune blinked. This man was from the heart of the Magyar kingdom like Ruby. If that were so, then had the Tartars already taken Strigonium? Had they finally captured the Magyar king and his court? "That's...not far from here."

The man let out an amused huff. "I was born there. I was captured elsewhere."

The relief washing over him felt a little strange. "Oh."

"You thought Strigonium fell already, huh. Not yet, I'd say."

'Not yet,' huh. "That's...one way of seeing it."

"I'm already on the other side of the war. Best to see things as to how they really are than rely on hopeless faith."

Jaune could agree with that. He took in stock the man's armor; no different from his. A saber was sheathed behind his saddle, right below his bow. What stood out, however, was the lance he was shouldering. This man was more than a slave warrior. "You were elevated?"

"Earned my spot," he answered pridefully. "You look like you did."

"I did what I had to do not to die."

"That's fair." The older rider gazed over his shoulder to where their respective commanders laughed at some indiscernible joke. Surrounding them were a couple other horsemen. Regular Tartar soldiers who were laughing along. Never minding the two slave warriors chatting not too far away. "What's your name, boy?"

"Jaune Arc."

A grunt. "Qrow Branwen."

"Not a very Magyar name if you don't mind me saying."

Qrow chuckled. "Well, my ancestors weren't born here."

Ah. So maybe that explained his detachment to the Magyar crown. Then again, given the reputation of King Béla IV, it was mostly expected. Jaune twisted his hips slightly to keep Yuse from wandering off again. Yuse was always an obedient steed. Odd that he was being rather antsy today. Could it be that this colt was sniffing out a mare? A lot of the Tartars often rode mares so they could drink the milk when they were thirsty.

"How'd you end up all the way over here?"

Jaune exhaled. He could trust Qrow. Maybe. Somewhat. The both of them were of the same circumstances: European men forced to fight for the Tartars against their own people. And Qrow seemed trustworthy so far. "I wanted a change of scenery."

The older man sniggered. "Of course, you did."

"I was born in Reims but I spent most of my time growing up in Masovia. Wasn't really an exciting life."

Qrow grunted, seemingly listening even though his crimson orbs were directed at the horizon where a hundred other horsemen were busy comparing bows. "Not one to stay in one place, are you?"

Jaune shook his head. "Circumstances there weren't...well, they weren't the best for someone like me. So I packed up my things, said my peace, and headed east. To the Rus'."

The older rider raised a brow. "The Rus' of all places?"

The Frank shrugged. "I felt the cold would do me some good."

"Never thought of taking up the Cross?"

"Never considered myself worthy of it. Besides, knowing my shitty luck, I'd only end up getting martyred in the most pathetic way possible."

"Luck, hah," Qrow snorted. "You would have been on the righteous side."

"And we're not righteous?"

He sniggered. "Since when were we ever?"

Jaune laughed at that. Not forced, not awkward, but genuine. He liked Qrow now.

The man in question fell silent after a while. His smile faded and immediately, he founded on him with a serious mien. "So...you were adventuring in the Rus'. Were you around when Kiev fell?"

The Frank sighed. "I was at Kiev fighting for my life."

"On whose side?"

Another sigh. "The Tartars. I was captured months before in a village by the Volga."

Another grunt. "I wasn't too far from Kiev. Then we rode down into Polonia. No one among us headed up north to Masovia so rest assured that your family is probably safe."

Jaune nodded. "That's reassuring."

Qrow hummed. "Were you at Mohi?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't see you there."

"Neither I you. I was the vanguard. I was too busy trying not to die."

"I was the vanguard, too, you know."

Jaune regarded Qrow. The man had no visible scars on him but his voice had enough weight to claim about as much. "Were you at Lignica, too?"

"We all were. Guess we were all strangers to each other back then. Too busy killing our own people to notice."

The Frank turned to the horizon, to the ends of the Great Hungarian Plain. On the edges began rolling hills and steep, forested mountains. Strigonium and the major cities lay beyond. Ripe for the taking. Or a sacking. After Lignica, it seemed ridiculous that there was anyone left who would offer resistance to the Tartar advance...if they ever decided to advance on the city.

"So, Qrow... Do you think...that the Magyars could...stand a chance?"

The older man rubbed his stubble. "... I think that until Béla stops running and the other princes in Christendom get their acts together, then maybe this would all go down differently for everybody." He leaned in close with a playful smirk. "But don't tell anyone I said that."

Jaune simpered. "My lips are sealed."

Qrow laughed. "I like you, kid. Smarter than most I know."

"Knowledge comes with power, after all."

"Stick around with us. Our captains are already rubbing shoulders anyway so if you feel a little left out, you know who to see."

The Frank smiled for the first time since he left Subetei's camp. "Thank you, _Ú_ _r_ Branwen."

"Eh, just call me Qrow."

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 22, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 7, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 2, 2019**

**NOTE: Don't expect much historical accuracy for this story.**

* * *

**Translations:**

**_Ú_ _r_ = Mister/Sir [Hungarian]**


	7. Kindness

It was close to dusk when they arrived at the first settlement that had not been razed to the ground: a small Hungarian village that had wisely decided to submit and pay tribute to their new overlords. The remains of broken, disjointed wooden palisades surrounded a few dozen houses scattered around a small muddy square with a few wells here and there. Of course, Jaune had tried to ignore the remains of the other homes that were burned down in previous raids.

Interestingly, Qrow was coming off a little uncomfortable with where they were at the moment. Their units were among the handful that were ordered to stay within the village proper to keep the residents docile. As if fifty poor and hungry villagers were going to rebel against four thousand trained horsemen.

Despite being from the fragmented lands of the great Charlemagne, he still felt the stinging guilt that would normally be more appropriate for people like Qrow. The weary, bewildered stares from the citizens, mothers clutching their children close to them, men stepping before their wives, the elderly defiantly planting their canes into the mud. Pairs of judging eyes followed him wherever Yuse plodded. The complete absence of welcome and warmth made Jaune sink deeper into his armor.

The Frank barely knew little of the Magyar tongue, or any of the languages spoken in the Kingdom of Hungary, yet their faces alone sent the same message as their hoarse whispers: traitor.

How dare you?

You have turned your back against us.

What have you done?

Heathen, how ye have forsaken the righteous of the Lord. May your soul perish forever in the eternal flames of Hell!

“ _T_ _évesztett idióták_ ,” Qrow snorted.

Jaune glanced over at the man riding beside him. There was no sympathy he could gather from him. “Qrow... Do you have anything here that, uh...?”

“I used to lodge here.”

“Oh.” That explained the glares. Some of them, at least. “Anyone here that you, um, know personally or...?”

“Well, not personally but you're looking at some of them.”

Jaune could hardly stand the attention from the townsfolk. “Right. What happened to the rest?”

“You know what happens.”

“Okay.” That much was enough.

The Frank was mum as Yuse plodded along, keeping close to the mare that carried Qrow. Their comrades were intermingling with the other units so it was fair for the two slave warriors to likewise seek out their fellow kharash for idle talk and the like. Even without Yusehol constantly sniffing out Qrow's horse for mating, Jaune would still have sought out the older man for likeminded conversation.

“What did you do here, anyway?” the Frank asked.

“Mercenary work.”

Oh. Just like him. Another thing the two of them had in common.

Their horses led them to a well on the edge of the settlement where a young girl had her back to them, drawing up water. She seemed too focused on her task to notice their presence.

Then she turned around. And tumbled on her rear in fright. She dropped her pail, spilling water all about her. Her breathing grew ragged and she pushed herself up against mortar of the well, eyes wide in fear.

The Frank looked down at the empty pail, then at the unmoving onlookers, then at Qrow.

The older man shrugged.

Jaune sighed. He dismounted and took a few steps close to her. She flinched at his approach and upon a second glance, he found her trembling. He shook his head and picked up the pail. The girl edged away from him only to stare when he ignored her and drew up water. Then he offered her the bucket, filled to the brim. She gawked at him. He tried to smile. To show that he was trustworthy. A trustworthy European dressed in the armor of the Tartar hordes.

“ _Csak vedd el_ ,” Qrow barked.

The girl nodded shakily then took the pail from him and scampered off, spilling droplets in her haste.

Jaune watched her disappear behind the houses, behind the other villagers who turned away as soon as they met his gaze. Oh well. The consequences of the tides of war. He tried to be benevolent. The Frank bent over the mortar, took a few sips, and splashed some water on his face before pulling on Yusehol's straps so he could saddle back up.

“Not what I expected from you,” Qrow remarked.

“What did you think I was going to do?” Jaune retorted. “Scare her? She was terrified enough as it was.”

“She's still terrified of you regardless.”

“A bit of kindness never hurt anyone,” the Frank defended, swinging his leg over and easing himself atop his mount. Yuse whinnied as he turned around, within full view of Dur'qatai and a handful of other Tartars staring back at him.

“Kindness can taste bitter,” Qrow muttered.

Jaune stared nervously back at his master who appeared rather unappreciative what he had just witnessed.

* * *

Ruby would be lying if she claimed she did not miss the savory banquets hosted by the Hungarian nobility whenever her father was invited to dine among his peers in Strigonium. Blake admitted about as much when she asked her; the older girl had dreamed many times of the succulent meals afforded by her parents.

That still did not ease the bitter knots in their stomachs when they were treated to a lavish—well, lavish by Tartar standards—dinner hosted by Subetei Ba'atar himself. There were a few other guests: aside from Subetei's Oriental servants bringing in their food, they were accompanied by some of the higher-ranking commanders in the Tartar army. Accompanying them was one of the kheshigs standing guard outside; the man sequestered himself to a corner and played music with his two-stringed lyre. The rest indulged in unadulterated drinking and debauchery—well, debauchery by Tartar standards—all around them.

Perhaps it was because Subetei considered the girls as honored guests with 'special privileges' instead of the common slaves that they were spared unruly treatment during the night's festivities.

Regardless, Ruby huddled close to Blake, munching carefully at her portion of smoked veal, spiced soup, and slices of salted and spiced veal. After recovering from her shameful fit from the honeyed drink earlier in the day, she made a point to firmly control her cravings. That and Blake was pained and remorseful when she explained to her how she had inadvertently disclosed her country's weaknesses to the man whose job it was to destroy her home.

The thought of having betrayed her own people made the meat taste stale.

“Not the sort to enjoy a feast?” Subetei prodded.

Ruby shook her head stiffly. “It's not that, sir. It's just, uh, it's been a long time since I've had one, _ba'atar_.”

“Ah, then consider this your reward. For your diligence.”

And not her perpetual clumsiness. “Ah, um, th-thank you, _ba'atar_.”

“Yes, yes. Come now. Enjoy yourself.” The elderly Tartar marshal turned away from her and then laughed at some indiscernible Tartar joke.

The Magyar tried to laugh along. but found herself choking dryly on air. She coughed into her bowl and glanced at Blake for help. Instead, she found the Lombard staring forlornly at the rug. She nudged her on the thigh. “Blake?”

Blake looked up at her and tried to put on a brave smile. It faltered. “Yes, Ruby?”

Ruby switched to Latin, a language that the Tartars, even Subetei himself, could not understand. “I'm scared. I want to go back to our tent. I miss Jaune.”

“I know,” the Lombard whispered. “I miss him, too. But we can't just leave.”

“I really want to go back to our tent. I don't want to be here anymore.”

“So do I. But I don't know what to do to get out of this.”

“We could say we're full and we're tired. He would let us go then, right?”

“I don't know. Maybe? I don't want to risk it.”

“Maybe we could...” Ruby stopped. Her ears had picked up the silence that had been stretching on for the past moment.

The music stopped. The laughter stopped. The noise stopped. No one was talking. Everyone stared. Subetei. his subordinates, and even the lyre-player were all watching her. The marshal himself had a very keen expression, near amused with how he was regarding her and Blake.

Ruby's jaw hung agape. Her fear clamored up her throat and she fought back tears. She felt Blake squeeze her hand and she nudged closer to the Lombard until her long charcoal hair touched her shoulder.

Then Subetei spoke. “You have a very interesting language, _Tsegla'atani_.”

The Magyar steadied her breathing upon hearing her Tartar name. Whatever words she tried to say came out in disjointed stutters.

“It is not very often that we hear your tongue. Latin, it is? Yes. Latin. Interesting language.”

Slowly, the din of chatter picked up until the noise of earlier returned. The Tartars were talking about them, surely. The lyre-player was about to continue where he left off when Subetei gestured at him to come forward.

The girls watched him put the instrument down and trot over. He stood at about a beam taller than Jaune and had a face thicker than his beard and an expression hollower than an iron mask. Most notable of him were gray stripes running down through his hair, tied into a tail.

Subetei issued a set of orders to which the kheshig lyre-player answered with a fist to his chest and a quick bow. He then turned to the two girls and gestured for them to stand.

“This is one of my most trusted men, Renjidai,” the marshal introduced. “He will guide you back to your tent.”

Renjidai bowed before the girls.

Ruby and Blake reciprocated with nervous nods. “We appreciate your generosity, _ba'atar_ ,” remarked the latter.

Subetei chuckled and waved them away. “I will see you again another time, _Tsegarlun_ , _Tsegla'atani_.”

The girls bowed politely and allowed themselves to be nestled out the door into the chilly darkness outside. Ruby held tight onto Blake's hand while Renjidai took the first steps before them, wielding a torch to illuminate their path.

“Follow me and do not stray,” he instructed.

They blinked. “You...can understand us?” Blake asked.

The kheshig ignored them, staring at them and waiting for them to follow.

They wordlessly did, meandering through yurts, past sentries and a few others like them still out doing the day's final chores. Slaves. Wives and widows. Many among them Tartars. Yet Ruby and Blake found it difficult to heap them all into the same basket as those who would ride out to pillage and enslave.

“Do not stray,” Renjidai ordered.

They didn't until they reached Jaune's tent. Well, _their_ tent. For now. Jaune would return. He would. He should! He promised. Arc's word.

Ruby nearly bolted inside when she felt a tug from Blake. Renjidai was about to leave them be when the former called out to him. “Thank you! For escorting us. Um, Renjidai, sir.”

The kheshig stopped. “You are welcome, Miss Rose.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Blake interjected, “But may we know... How can you understand us?”

Again, Renjidai was silent. He let out a long sigh before he spared them his full attention for the final time that evening. The torch he held close to his face revealed the only emotion he would ever spare them for now: sympathy.

“It is wise to learn the tongues of your enemies,” he replied morosely.

“B-but, we're not your enemies, right?” Ruby stammered.

He shook his head. “No. Not you two. Neither is your friend _Numan_ nor the many others like him who are laboring with diligence in this camp.”

“Will things change for us?” the Lombard queried.

“I do not know the answer to that, Miss Belladonna.”

“What answers do you know, sir?” the Magyar asked.

“Subugatai _Baghatar_ favors you and your friend _Numan_ among others.”

Blake stepped forward. “What are we supposed to do then? Is there anything he wants us to do? You can tell us.”

“You can do something or you can do nothing,” Renjidei deflected. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”

“What else can you tell us?”

The kheshig breathed deep. He made to turn only to stop himself. There was no one else nearby who could hear them. They were on the outskirts of the camp, a small tent set up far from the heart of the army. Far from prying eyes and woken ears.

“A bit of advice,” Renjidai remarked softly. “Take action while you still can.”

Ruby squinted. “What do you mean by that?”

“The worst action you can take is taking no action at all. So do something before it's too late.” He then pressed his fist to his chest and gave them a short bow. His voice was louder now and clearly for show to whoever was still out at this time of night, listening in. “Have a good night, Miss Belladonna, Miss Rose.”

The kheshig departed quickly before any of them could ask anymore questions.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 1, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 15, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 15, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

**_T_ _évesztett idióták_ = Deluded idiots. [Hungarian]**

_**Csak vedd el** _ **. = Just take it. [Hungarian]**

_**Tsegla'atani** _ **(** **_Tsetseg_ \+ _Ula'an_ \+ _tani_ ) = Red-Flower (Flower + Red + name suffix) [Mongolian]**

_**Tsegarlun** _ **(** **_Tsetseg_ \+ _Gar_ \+ _lun_ )= Black-Flower (Flower + Black + name suffix) [Mongolian]**


	8. Protection

Jaune was the earliest to wake among his unit. Like most Tartar soldiers, he had slept in his armor, sparing himself the more arduous task of putting it on. He quietly rolled up his cot and headed outside of the tent he shared with his comrades and replaced everything he carried with him onto the knapsack atop Yuse's saddle. Not a moment later, his master, also clad in his armor, emerged to breathe the early morning air.

“Eager to see battle, _Numan_?” Dur'qatai greeted.

Eager to be out of the same space as you, Jaune refrained from saying. “I wake early, _noyan_.”

“Yes, yes.” The Tartar slapped on the open door and barked into the yurt. The moans and groans of the eight other soldiers echoed back outside.

Breakfast was quick with soup and tenderized dried meat being passed around in bowls. Across the camp, the standard-bearers bounced their banners to show to the senior commanders that they had turned in their things to the baggage train and were ready to march out. Jaune trudged over to help with disassembling their yurt. The sun was a few notches over the horizon by the time they had given the materials to the quartermasters driving the carriages in the back.

“You have made an interesting acquaintance yesterday,” Dur'qatai remarked as he saddled up.

The Frank nodded, already letting Yusehol plod ahead with his unit's standard-bearer.

“I know his _arbanu'u darga_ ,” his liege continued. “He is the son of one of Subugatai _Baghatar_ 's finest kheshigs.”

Jaune was not entirely surprised by that. Okay. So Qrow's unit commander was the son of one of Subetei's elite guardsmen. Interesting at least.

“A fine archer like his father. Very skilled with daggers as well.” Dur'qatai sniggered softly to himself. “You know, _Numan_. You have some things in common with Renkhai _Darga_.”

“What are those, _noyan_?”

“You are both _kharash_.”

Oh. Should he be surprised? “Okay.”

“You are both experienced.”

Okay.

“You both annoy me,” the Tartar growled.

Jaune straightened atop his saddle. “My apologies for being a nuisance then, _noyan_.”

“You should have not bothered with that girl at the well,” Dur'qatai sneered. “It is not wise to pander to the desires of our subjects. We are their new masters. We are their rulers. You are dressed as one of us yet you bend your knee lower than those who are but rats in a cage.”

That was because he was a fanged rat dressed in the tanned hides of a tiger, Jaune wanted to retort. “Is it wrong to offer assistance to those who have already submitted, _noyan_?”

Dur'qatai simpered. “It is not in our nature as rulers to behave as slaves. You should understand that if you wish to see yourself lifted higher into our ranks.”

Jaune frowned. He had no intention of ascending any further than he already had. The only reason he would consider such was if it ensured sparing him his head on the block. Other than that, he wanted to be rid of them. To return home to Masovia and see his family. To beg for forgiveness from his father and embrace his mother and sisters. To take Ruby and Blake with him...

“Was I behaving as a slave, _noyan_?”

“When you are dressed to fight, you will fight like a soldier.” Dur'qatai brought his steed in close to be able to press his glare to his face. “I am your _noyan_ and your _darga_. As _noyan_ , you are my slave. But as _darga_ , you should behave like a soldier. Today until we return to Subughatai _Baghatar_ with our victory and our spoils, I am your _darga_.”

“A soldier helps those under them, _noyan_.”

His master scoffed. “A soldier fights for his leader. Do not argue with me anymore on this.”

Jaune bit down the rising growl in his throat. “... Yes, _noyan_.”

“I will let your behavior pass this once. Do not expect me to be continuously graceful.”

“Thank you, _noyan_. I am expecting nothing less from you.”

“Be grateful that I am graceful to you. For the others are not.”

The Frank could see that. Throughout their march, he felt the glares of his own comrades burning against his back. His act of kindness only won him more contempt. It seemed that among the entire soldiery, only Qrow was unashamedly solemn and at least sympathetic.

“ _Numan_. Fall in.”

Jaune slipped on his helmet and clicked his tongue to guide Yusehol over to his comrades who were lining up on their mounts for the morning inspection. Over the banners and the flags, the bright orange sun carved out the rugged, forested horizon that hid their targets.

Dur'qatai was speaking now in the Tartar tongue. No doubt, he was parroting the instructions passed down from Qir'gajin Noyan.

His master then turned to him and harped, “ _Numan_! There is a fortified settlement to the northwest. We will burn it to the ground today. Be prepared for it.”

The Frank gulped. “Yes, _noyan_.”

With that, the first lines of horsemen ahead began the march. Jaune wordlessly contemplated his fate. He did not know what his role would be. Maybe he would be thrown in with the vanguard as he had been or perhaps Subetei's favor merited him a safer placement in the attack. He could not be certain of any of those, however.

And it was for that uncertainty that Jaune mouthed a quiet prayer to the God he constantly ignored. Have mercy upon Thy poor servant, oh Lord. Spare me the worst of this attack. For the sake of Ruby and Blake, let me live to see them again...

* * *

Blake woke early. And quickly got to work to make sure that no one would fault them for anything they might have missed. She rolled up her beddings and kindled a small flame in the fire pit before she shook Ruby awake.

“Ruby. Ruby, come on, get up.”

The Magyar groaned and tossed about. “ _M_ _é_ _g_ _ö_ _t perc_ , Jaune~...”

“Jaune's not...” Blake caught herself. She eased back and bit down on her lip. Jaune was not here. They were on their own. She had to do this. They had to pick up after him now. Until he returned, of course. He will. He has to. “Jaune's not here, Ruby. Get up.”

Ruby stirred. She shifted until she blinked awake. The warm sweetness of her expression vanished immediately and she sat up morose. “Morning, Blake...”

“Morning, Ruby. Want some breakfast?”

“Sure,” she croaked.

Breakfast marked how rough their day began. Quick, abrupt phrases were exchanged, skirting the fact that they were now two among the hundreds upon hundreds of slaves in the Tartar army that were granted privileges reserved for those greater than them. For what reason? Neither of them really wanted to think about it.

It was later on in the morning, when they kindled a small flame in the fire pit of Dur'qatai's yurt to have an early lunch after mucking up horse dung, that Ruby confronted Blake with words that she hoped to avoid hearing.

“Blake, I don't like Subetei.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Me neither.”

“There has to be a reason why he's being so nice to us,” Ruby raised, ignoring the curious glances of a few passing Tartars. “I don't know what it is and I don't like it.”

“You don't like being safer than before?” Blake countered quietly, her eyes darting from side to side in fearful anticipation of someone listening intently to their conversation.

“I'm not complaining about that. I just...I don't trust him.”

“Yeah. I don't too.”

“I miss Jaune.”

“I do, too.”

Blake took Ruby by the wrist and pulled her into the tent where they did not say much else to each other until they finished their lunch. Their silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. Ruby stiffened as Blake slowly stood up.

“Who's that?” the former whispered.

“I don't know.” The latter gestured at her to clean up immediately. “I'll handle this. Just keep busy.”

“On it.”

Blake breathed deep and counted to three before she opened the door.

“Good morning, _Tsegarlun_ ,” Renjidai greeted formally, a fist pressed to his chest to compliment the short bow he gave her.

The Lombard stammered for a bit. She was not expecting him. “Good morning, Renjidai. What brings you here?”

“I was tasked by Subugatai _Baghatar_ to watch over you.”

Blake nodded slowly. “I see.”

Ruby had shuffled over to her side now. She stared up at the tower of a man who was a member of the Tartar elite guard. “Good morning, Renjidai.”

“Good morning, _Tsegla'atani_ ,” the kheshig bowed.

“Ruby,” Blake parroted, “Renjidai was sent by Subetei to protect us.”

The Magyar puckered her lip nervously. “A-ah, okay. Th-that is w-well and good.”

“You need not fear, _Tsegla'atani_. I will not bother you in your duties. I am only here to ensure you are not to be disturbed by others in the camp. I will remain outside should you need me.”

The two girls exchanged looks. Both knew there was no declining this. The order had been given and Renjidai was here standing on their threshold carrying it out. Even without the full coat of his armor, he gave off an intimidating air with his mace hanging off his belt loop, his bow inches away from his wrist, and his quiver filled with twice the arrows that Jaune normally carried as a soldier. Unsmiling as the kheshig was, he remained true to his word.

Blake and Ruby watched him from the inside of the tent. They waited until he had seated himself on a stool beside the entrance. Saying nothing. Watching the nearest yurts, nodding at passers by, and humming to himself while he unpacked his belongings from his knapsack that he carried with him.

The girls edged back inside.

“I don't like this,” Ruby whimpered.

“Me neither,” Blake agreed softly.

* * *

“Do you see it?” Dur'qatai asked.

Jaune nodded. He could see it alright. There, on the horizon, atop a low mound surrounded by a sparse mix of trees and stumps. Protecting it were pathetic mud embankments shoveled up from the quagmire to hold up scattered wooden palisades. Inside hummed a small but wealthy village that chose to resist instead of pay tribute to Prince Batu. Well, wealthy enough to afford these expressions of defiance to their fate. As though such defenses could stop the determined Tartar force.

They had sealed their destinies when they refused to submit. They had denied themselves mercy by taking up arms. There would be little to nothing left standing when they were through with them.

The Frank paused to stare at his hands. He shook his head and grunted at himself as he slipped on the thumb ring that he was trained to notch arrows with. As though it was jarring enough to ride and shoot arrows like the Tartars, he caught himself thinking more and more like them; it was terrifying.

“We will take up positions in front of the north gate,” his master instructed. “Only attack when the signal has been given. Understood?”

“Yes, _noyan_.” As if he didn't know already.

“Good.” Dur'qatai clicked his tongue and galloped along with the river of men and horses flowing around the fortifications to amass before a small shuttered gantry.

Jaune followed, bringing Yuse around and riding with the standard-bearer of his unit. He had barely kicked his heels against his steed's sides when the first arrows flew over his head. The Magyar defenders hastily manned the few towers they had put up to harass them. There was going to be no siege, rather a quick thick battle that he was becoming anxious of.

“Hey!”

The Frank snapped his head to his right to see Qrow riding alongside him. “You're riding vanguard?”

“Yeah,” the older man grunted. “Duck your head and keep your hand on your horse's eyes when you charge in! Good luck! To you and your commander!”

“Likewise!” Jaune bade, watching Qrow move at a quicker pace forward to meet up with the darga leading his unit, a much younger rider who appeared to be of the same age as him.

Another arrow whistled over his head and he ducked on instinct, directing Yusehol into a near collision with another horseman. He twisted his hips to steer his steed away though bringing him close enough to get a good look at the rider he nearly toppled over.

“Be careful,” snapped Renkhai Darga.

Jaune blinked. Renkhai knew the language he used with Qrow? That should make sense given how he was also a kharash. He spent the next moment scrutinizing him. Oriental face, sharp eyes, a strip of hair dyed in whitish red. On his shoulder pad was a floral emblem unlike the images painted here in Europe.

“Head down!” Renkhai yelled.

Again, Jaune ducked, sparing himself an arrow to his neck. Some of the Tartars around them began firing back. A quick glance to the wall showed a hail of arrows pinning the defenders. One or two of the Magyar archers dropped behind their wooden barriers with arrows jutting out their necks. Such were the skill of these mounted warriors.

Qrow's voice boomed through the noise. “Renkhai _Darga_! They fired the signal!”

The Frank turned to see Renkhai suddenly gallop away with Qrow. Jaune stared up at the sky to see bright ribbon tails tied to arrows that were shot over his head by the Tartar heralds. It was the signal to assemble in preparation for a charge.

“ _Numan_! Keep up!” Dur'qatai barked from several paces ahead.

Jaune snapped the reins harder on Yusehol to catch up with his liege. “Yes, _noyan_!”

By the time he reached his unit, someone raised one of the many black banners flying overhead. Then, with a mighty cry, the Tartars charged over the dried up creek and up the muddy embankments directly towards the walls.

The Frank was lost in the chaos and in the haze that clouded his vision, he witnessed Dur'qatai smashing right through the wooden palisades along with nearly everyone else. Jaune gripped the reins when he realized too late that Yusehol had been frenzied as well, neighing wildly as the beast galloped up towards an unbroken section of the wall.

Jaune had little time to follow Qrow's advice, instead closing his eyes as his whole body collided with rotten, splintering timber.

* * *

Snap!

Ruby recoiled her wrist with a hiss. The bow dropped to the carpet as Blake rushed over to see what had gone wrong this time. Blood ebbed from a sharp cut on the younger girl's palm.

“Ugh! I hate it when this happens,” the Magyar growled.

The Lombard quickly tore a ball of cotton wool from one of the bales of fleece balled up in the corner of Dur'qatai's yurt. She dipped it in a bowl of water which she then dabbed on the wound. “Were you pulling on the string?”

Ruby pouted. That was enough of an answer.

Blake sighed. “Basic lesson of handling weapons: don't dry fire a bow. It harms the weapon.”

“Oh? And not my hand?”

“Why were you fiddling with it anyway?” The Lombard picked up the bow and hung it on the mesh draping down from the beams. “We're supposed to clean these, not play with them.”

Ruby turned away, letting the older girl wrap up her wound with ripped strips of cloth. “... I wasn't playing with it.”

“Ruby,” Blake pressed.

“I was taking action.”

“What?”

“I wanted to do something to help us. Renjidai told us last night. He said we should do something while we still can.”

Blake let Ruby's hand, now fully covered, drop to her lap as she stared at her. “And what exactly were you doing?”

“I wanted to...learn archery.”

The Lombard felt her brows rise. “Why?”

“Because I want to learn to fend for myself!” the Magyar snapped, cradling her hand. “You said it yourself. I'm not a child anymore. And who knows what Subetei wants from us. Jaune's not here and Renjidai is warning us to be wary.”

Blake bit her lip. “... And so you wanted to try your hand at archery?”

Ruby exhaled. “I'm sorry, Blake. I thought... I thought that if I learned how to use a bow, I might...”

“You might what?”

“I'd get others to stop pestering us?” She huffed and bowed. “I just...I just want to feel a little safer, okay? I know you're trying so hard and doing your best but—”

The Lombard held up her hand. “It's okay. I understand.”

“... You do?”

“Trust me.” Blake smiled. Not a sad smile this time. “I do understand.”

Ruby beamed up at her. “So...you'll teach me?”

“I've used bows before. And I guess I could get back to it after all this time...” The Lombard whipped her head behind her to see the door ajar. “... Though I don't know if we have the privilege of wielding weapons. Even then, I don't know how you and I can practice without, well, you know...”

Ruby craned her head over her shoulder to the doorway. Somewhere outside, Renjidai was standing guard. Listening in on their conversation, maybe? He seemed trustworthy, at least. The most trustworthy among the Tartars. “We can find ways.”

The older girl raised her brow. “I'd rather you not risk our freedom to learn to notch arrows properly.”

“Trust me, Blake. We can figure something out.”

The girls stared out the door once more. Renjidai had strolled into view albeit his back was to them. He had his hands folded and was nodding at others passing by. Dangling beside his pouch was his quiver filled with arrows while his bow hung from a strap on his shoulder.

“Do you think he'll agree to teach us?” Ruby whispered.

Blake felt her response dry up on her tongue when Renjidai turned around and nodded at them, nary a trace of emotion on his face. Then he walked out of view.

After a long moment, the older girl whispered back. “We'll think about that later. For now, we need to be done with cleaning up here. Is your hand still hurting?”

“Not anymore.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, picking up the bowl.

Ruby followed her outside where she dumped the water into the grass. “I've had worse splinters before. I'll be fine.”

The girls saw Renjidai seated on a stool close to the threshold. They wordlessly exchanged nods and were headed back inside when the kheshig reached over and tugged Ruby by the sleeve. His eyes wandered on the wrappings on her hand then at the two nervous slaves.

“Word of advice, _Tseglata'atani_. When you pull back the bowstring with no arrow notched, do not release. It would only damage the bow.”

Ruby and Blake exchanged glances before the former nodded. “Thank you for the advice.”

Renjidai let go and returned to gazing distantly over the domiciles of his fellow Tartars.

Back inside, the two girls sat down unmoving and unnerved. They watched their lunch simmer in the cast iron pot they planted over the fire pit.

“So,” Ruby croaked. “Don't dry fire a bow.”

Blake was silent.

The Magyar exhaled, her fists clenching over her lap. “I'm going to take the risk. I'm going to ask Renjidai to help us.”

The Lombard hummed. “I think he already is.”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 13, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: August 30, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 30, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

 _**Arbanu'u darga** _ **= Commander of a 10-man Mongol military unit**

**_M_ _é_ _g_ _ö_ _t perc_ = Five more minutes [Hungarian]**


	9. Hunting

**NOTE: Be warned. Some of the imagery in this chapter may be a bit much for some readers.**

* * *

Jaune could barely recall what had happened that landed him hard on his back in the hardening mud. It was taking every bit of him to stand with his body aching all over. His hands blindly searched for something to hold onto.

“Get up!”

What? His mouth moved but he could only hear gibberish. The shadow barking at him grabbed his wrist, pulling him up to stand.

“You're still alive,” Qrow breathed, his face mired in dark specs of blood. Someone else's blood. Over his shoulder jutted his bow while a his blooded mace sat in his grip. “Get it together! We've pressing the attack!”

What attack?

Jaune's knees buckled. Qrow caught him, helping him to his feet again. Faster than the Frank could think, the older man unslung his own bow and handed it to him. “Focus! I know you got hit hard in the head but we need every man to fight so we won't lose our advantage!”

What that advantage was, he very quickly rediscovered. Jaune began running before he commanded himself to move. His mind was still a mess and it took him another moment to comprehend his surroundings and get back on track. He pressed his thumb ring back into place, tugged on the bowstring, and dug a hand into his quiver for his arrows. He still had his sword with him, still scabbarded, and no bit of his armor had loosened off its straps.

He stopped running and glanced around.

They were assaulting a fortress now, one of many strongholds that were resisting the overlordship of the Tartars. Mud walls had collapsed into the trenches behind them as did the wooden palisades that the charge of the vanguard had easily smashed through. A charge that he was a part of and one that had dismounted him and tore apart a section of the wall. Hundreds of his comrades were several paces ahead, battling the defenders within their inner borders and wreaking havoc.

Jaune tasted salt on his lips. He pressed his fingers inside his helmet, rubbing over his temple, and felt something sticky. He slowed to a stop in the midst of many a melee to inspect the dried blood caking his fingers.

“ _Kyrie eleis_!”

The Frank snapped to his senses quick enough to deflect the incoming blow of a Magyar spearman.

“Jaune!”

Jaune buckled at the mention of his name. He fell back not a moment before Qrow leapt in his place, smashing the head of his mace against the skull of his opponent.

“Eyes up!” the older man barked at him. “Pick a target and fight!”

The Frank staggered to his feet once again. He tried to recall what had transpired up to this point only to be interrupted by the noise of a boulder smashing into a wooden tower not too far from them. More noise. Shouting. Screaming. The crunching of steel against bone, the whistles of arrows, a woman running around in the middle of the battlefield yelling for her husband or son or daughter or some other.

Jaune hefted his bow and notched an arrow. He blinked away the dirt in his eyes and took aim at someone in a thick jerkin, holding up spear, standing in the middle of the battlefield, his head snapping back and forth in confusion.

Hold.

Focus.

Breathe in.

The pain across his body numbed. He squeezed shut one eye and raised his grip a notch above his target's belt. In the quick moment before he loosed his arrow, he caught the lack of whiskers on the man. Or boy. No older than Ruby. Same panicked expression that he saw when he first glimpsed her at the slave market weeks ago. The same fear that overwhelmed her when he bought her.

Jaune released his thumb. He traced the arrow until it landed into the young spearman's neck.

He had just killed a boy levied in the defense of a broken fort. A boy around the same age as Ruby. A boy as fearful as Blake.

The Frank exhaled and stared at his quarry. A single shaft protruded from his neck. He had slain an enemy because his life depended on it. Because he was serving as a soldier in the army of Subetei Ba'atar who held the lives of Ruby and Blake in his hands. Jaune had taken the lives of others before, whether he reveled in the deed or not, and he was going to do it again, anyway.

The world around him suddenly condensed and he was pushed back onto the ground by a body bigger than his.

* * *

Blake and Ruby were curdling milk into cheese when they heard music playing outside their tent. They stilled and peeked out the door to find Renjida, as usual, seated beside the entrance, serenely running a bowstring over his two-stringed lyre. The music itself was unlike what they had often heard around the camp.

Unlike the jovial melody that befitted the debauchery such as the previous night's dinner, this one was reserved. Long, drawn out notes following a pattern that hummed resolution...and sadness.

The girls quietly withdrew back inside.

“It sounds sad,” Ruby remarked.

“Yeah, it does,” Blake hummed.

They listened more as the kheshig continued playing. The emotion of the music grew more tragic until it ended on an abrupt note. Then silence.

Ruby stared into the skin of hardening milk. “Sounds beautiful, don't you think?”

“... Yes, it does.”

“Kind of like the bards at home. I miss their music.” The Magyar went back shaking the skin and watching the bits of hardened milk swirl in circles. “You come from a rich family, right?”

Blake was taken aback by the inquiry and immediately fell back on her first line of defense: deflection. “About as rich as yours.”

“My family...we're not, well... We're not really wealthy or in high standards. My mother died when I was young and my father preferred to shoulder the duties of a mother rather than marry another one. It wasn't easy being for a soldier like him.”

“You...didn't have servants to watch over you?”

Ruby offered her a flat look. “My father was a _v_ _á_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_ , a sort of knight. It took him years to earn his place. Before that, it took him even more years to earn his place among the common folk. You could say that he wasn't...from here.”

A slow nod. “Oh.”

“Besides, even if we could afford servants, my father would rather raise us himself than entrust us to a woman who was not our mother.” The diminutive girl let out a single, bitter huff. “You would think that being a knight would get you some good land and a nice manor with enough money to throw around. But our dear king had to give that all away to the Kun.”

“I thought you didn't hold anything against them.”

A sigh. “I don't. I just don't like how unfair it is for us. We came here first. We tilled the land first, turned these swamps into farmlands long before those tribesmen came here pleading for sanctuary.”

“Things weren't very fair to the Kun,” Blake said. “That's why they came to you, right?”

“Is that why you came here?” Ruby countered, staring firmly at the older girl in the eyes. “Things weren't very fair in Lombardy?”

The Lombard raised her chin and turned to the bowl where the the milk was settling. “Things were difficult. I happened to be moved elsewhere because of it.”

“Something forced you to move or you moved yourself?”

Blake bit her lip. Why was Ruby being so persistent today? If Jaune were here, he would... No. He wasn't here. Her failsafe was not here. Her distraction was not here. As ridiculous as it was compared to all that she had done in the past, simply saying no to Ruby was proving to be one of the most difficult things she could ever do. She had grown so much to her that the very thought of lying to preserve her secrets was becoming abhorrent.

Ruby moved the bowl away and sat cross-legged before her. Curious. Determined. “You were safe and warm in a manor surrounded by stone walls and guards with better arms than us. Why did you give that up for a swampy, sticky marshland being burned to the ground by merciless Orientals?”

Blake choked, unable to stare back at her. “We weren't very safe.”

The Magyar tilted her head. “Why not?”

“You...you wouldn't understand.”

“I wouldn't? Look at me. Look at us. Look at where we are. How can I not understand?”

“Because...because we...my people, we...we were being attacked.”

“By who?”

Blake exhaled into her palms. “The Holy Roman Empire.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Because,” she nearly snapped. “Because the Hohenstaufens don't respect our independence. We keep giving them what they want in exchange for the freedom to live our own lives the way we want to.”

“Is that why their army is over there fighting your people and not over here fighting the Tartars?”

The Lombard dejectedly nodded. Since when did Ruby's questions stab her so deep? “They attacked us first, Ruby. Imperial troops marched into our lands and tried to take what is ours by force. They besieged Rome to get the Pope to bend to their will. Don't you know?”

“I heard stories and I didn't think they were true. Is that why you left? To get away from the fighting?”

Blake stammered. “I didn't flee. I was fighting against them alongside my parents and many of my friends. We were...we were holding them back...as a union of communes...a league.”

“So...why did you come here when you were winning?”

“We weren't winning as much as I thought we were.”

“What made you leave your home then?” Ruby pressed. “You and I know why Jaune left Masovia. I was taken from my home. What about you?”

Blake bit her lip, unable to look her in the eye. Instead, her fingers rested on her lap, crumpling the fabric of her dress. “I... I was with my friends. We thought that it would be best to...we wanted to do more to help our cause. So we...we left Lombardy. We traveled east to...gather support.”

“How?”

Another groan. This was too much. She could not coat her secrets any longer. “We were hoping others were sympathetic to our plight. We thought that we had could gather support...from powerful people across the Ister.”

“So you were moving around in our lands when you were taken,” Ruby guessed.

Blake snatched her lifeline. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

“What about your friends?”

“They...” She shook her head. “I hope they're better off than I am right now, to be honest.”

Ruby shrugged. “Things aren't that bad.”

Blake sighed, grateful that this was winding down. “For now.”

The Magyar reached over and took her hand. “I trust you, Blake. You can trust me.”

The Lombard looked at her. Innocence and comfort shown brighter than molten silver in those glistening eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do trust you.”

Ruby smiled. “I trust you to keep my secrets. It's good to know that you trust me to keep yours.”

Blake beamed back. “That's...that's wonderful.”

“Strigonium is still standing, you know.”

The older girl held her tongue. She peeked above her shoulder. The door was open and without a doubt, Renjidai was idling close by. She leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Pray that the Tartars will be defeated or Subetei grows tired of war.”

“I already am,” she whispered back.

* * *

“ _Numan_!”

Jaune blinked. He spat out dirt and heaved up from the ground, pushing hard against the weight holding him down. The mangled corpse eventually rolled off his back unceremoniously into the mud.

“ _Numan_!”

The Frank wiped his eyes and staggered around until he came face to face with his liege.

“You are still alive!” Dur'qatai declared. “Gather yourself and rejoin us. We are herding them into the heart of the village. Easy cattle for slaughter.”

Jaune made to speak only to cough at the burning sensation in his throat. At least he still held onto the bow Qrow gave him and his sword had yet to be drawn. No horse this time. God knows Yuse was either dead or galloping off somewhere.

“Follow me, _Numan_!”

Right foot, left foot. Follow his master. Deeper into the town.

“Watch where you tread!”

The Frank lifted his leg to step over a corpse. And another. And another. Bodies littered the streets, some draped over the threshold of their own homes. Bloodied and battered. The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils; the Tartars were already burning the houses and the unfortunate souls still trapped within them. Screaming. Crying.

Crack!

With thoughtless practiced speed, Jaune drew his sword and ran it through a person stumbling out of a blazing hut. Pale, slender fingers wrapped around the blade. He traced the fingers back up to the mortified look of a woman no older than Blake.

Her face was wet with flowing tears and she choked out a final gasp as he dragged the pommel out. Dur'qatai clapped his shoulder.

“Good work, _Numan_! Join us for the final bounty and I will consider delivering early my end our little agreement.”

Jaune stared dumbly at the dead woman. Then at his master who turned his back to him and was barking orders at the other Tartar soldiery to hurry up and amass for a final killing. The knapsack tied with a black ribbon—Blake's ribbon—hung tantalizingly off his liege's belt, straddling his quiver and dancing with his scabbard.

There were many others around him but they were too lost in their madness. His comrades had run on ahead, fighting and killing with savagery unmatched by the bandits roaming Masovia. Everyone was taken in the euphoria of their own deeds.

Dur'qatai was laughing now. Laughing at the carnage being wrought upon the Magyars. Laughing at the villagers' torment and savoring the punishment due them for their defiance to Prince Batu.

Blake had never told him what was in the bag. Jaune only knew that it was very dear to her. In the haze of his mind, he knew that his goal was to earn them their freedom and restore whatever happiness had been robbed of the three of them.

“Remember, _Numan_!” Dur'qatai hollered. “Carve your share of the cattle if you wish to have your precious Lombard's property returned.”

Carve his share of the cattle?

Jaune stared ahead.

The wounded, the sick, the elderly, the women and the children... All scrambled over each other in a terrified heap in the town square. As a snake would choke out its prey, the Tartars edged closer. Their savage grins matched the glistening steel of their bloodied blades.

Then it happened.

Of all the people, Jaune had never expected Qrow. The grizzled Magyar kharash took a wide stride forward towards an elderly man, a priest if his Papal robes were any meaning, and mercilessly caved his bald head in with that mace of his.

The wails rose to screams and the Tartars converged into the square in a frenzy. Jaune barely found the words to describe the bloodletting; the most his mind could comprehend was likening his comrades to crazed wolves descending upon a herd of sheep after having torn through the shepherd. No one was spared.

Amid the deed that he had seen before on the banks of the Volga and over the fields across Lignica, Jaune discerned a solitary figure standing on the threshold of the killing floor. Renkhai Darga remained unmoving, staring emptily. Their eyes met. And there was an understanding there.

Renkhai did not partake in this sin.

That was enough for Jaune to abstain from sinning any more than he already had.

* * *

Ruby and Blake were escorted by Renjidai back to their tent after fulfilling a day's worth of chores. It was time for supper and there was still some meat left over that they could warm up again over the fire.

“Thank you,” they bade to the kheshig to which he solemnly bowed with a fist to his chest.

“We will be having dinner,” Ruby raised. “Would you like to join us?”

Renjidai turned to Blake to see her nodding in agreement. “Yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”

While Blake kindled the fire and Ruby parceled the meat, the kheshig sat cross-legged on the carpet. His back was straight and he had his saber on his lap, within a thumb's reach. Like Subetei. And then, he was silent. Watching them work.

“This is all we have left,” Ruby began, trying her best to start a conversation. “Tomorrow, we will have to go to the market to purchase more.”

Renjidai made a noise that meant he was listening.

Blake kept mum, letting Ruby talk. She focused more on observing the kheshig. Why did he sit like that? What was he thinking? How good was he in a fight? Were the vaunted kheshigud really as formidable as they were touted to be? Throughout her musings, she convinced herself that Renjidai was entertaining the same thoughts. She had let her guard down before the great Subetei Ba'atar, a brilliant marshal who had the Devil's charm and the ruthlessness of the King of Hell. She was not going to make the same mistake with Renjidai.

“Did _Numan_ teach you how to use his tools?” he asked.

“Um, no,” Ruby answered timidly, hovering over the meat sizzling over the flame to make sure she would not overcook it. “He...he didn't have time.”

Renjidai nodded. “And you, _Tseglarlun_?”

Blake chose her words carefully. “We had our duties to attend to.”

“I see.”

Later on, during dinner, Renjidai asked again. “ _Tsegla'atani_ , have you shot a bow?”

“Once or twice? It was a long time ago,” Ruby replied.

“And you, _Tsegarlun_?”

“Only when I had to,” Blake answered.

The kheshig set down his empty plate. He ate fast. “And when had it been necessary?”

“When wild animals came,” the Lombard deflected, taking large spoonfuls.

“And what of swords? Have you used them?”

Blake prolonged her chewing to avoid having to answer. Unfortunately, Ruby did that for her.

“Daggers,” the Magyar piped. “But that was for tanning hides and cutting fruit.”

“Anything more than that?”

Ruby gazed nervously down to her toes and twiddled her thumbs. “Just only when...for sustenance...and the sort.”

“I see.” Renjidai finished his bowl before setting it down and reaching into the small of his back.

Both girls froze in their spots when they recognized the unmistakeable shape of a scabbard's tip glinting against the fire.

“Bows are not the only weapons in a hunter's arsenal,” the kheshig remarked.

“H-hunter?” Ruby stuttered.

Renjidai gave her a knowing smile. “You are learning to hunt, are you not?”

Blake understood quickly. “Yes. Yes, we are learning to hunt. For our sustenance. Right, Ruby?”

Ruby let her jaw drop as she caught on. She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, of course.”

Renjidai chuckled. “That is good. Finish your meals and I will teach you how to properly use this against...a rabid animal.”

* * *

Come dusk, when the corpses had been mutilated and heaped into burning pyramids, the Frank was visited by his liege.

“ _Aimkhai_ ,” snorted Dur'qatai.

Jaune had nothing to say in return. He sat on the only patch of grass left untainted by the battle with his arms on his knees, watching his master depart with that bag tied with the black ribbon hanging off his belt. To his right, a Tartar was dragging another lifeless infant by the leg to toss to the fire. A glance to his left revealed the heads of the Magyar soldiers who had been felled hours before, the pile topped by a bodiless girl taunting him with dry open eyes and a tongue-less mouth.

The flies were already settling but he made no attempt to swat them away. His stomach retched at the stench but he had vomited his breakfast shortly after carrying his last corpse.

“You understand me, yes? _Numan_?”

Jaune looked up to see Renkhai Darga standing before him. Without his helmet, the man was no younger than him. An Oriental face with dark flowing mane tied to a tail flowing in the odorous breeze. A bright discolored strip—whitish red—of his hair ran down his cheek.

“Qrow has said good things about you,” Renkhai continued. “I have heard them myself from others. Though they do not think highly of you as Qrow does.”

Jaune grunted.

“Your _darga_ is not happy with you.”

“He isn't,” the Frank growled. “You're a _darga_ yourself. So tell me...why didn't you jump in with the rest of them? Why didn't you kill your share of the cattle?”

Renkhai sat beside him. “My father once told me that the worst action to take is taking no action at all.”

“What does that makes us then? We did nothing.”

“I already took action. I fought. And so did you. That is what matters to the Mongols.”

“You mean the Tartars?”

Renkhai nodded. “A word of advice, friend. Do not let them hear you mention that name. They despise that.”

Jaune scrunched his brow. “Why?”

“The Tartars were a tribe in the distant East, near the homeland of my people. They were destroyed by the Mongols and the survivors absorbed into their army.”

“Huh. That's good to know.”

“The Mongols have seen you fight. You fought well. They may despise you for not sharing in their bloodlust but they cannot argue against your prowess as a soldier.”

“Thank you, _darga_.”

“You are a friend of Qrow. As such, you are a friend to me as well. And as a friend, you are free to call me by my birth name: Ren Lie.”

“Ren Lie, huh. Nice to meet you. My name's Jaune Arc.” Jaune extended his hand.

Ren shook it with a smile. “It is a pleasure, Jaune.”

“So you command Qrow?”

“Yes, I do. He is older than me and has more experience in battle. However, he respects my authority for he understands the circumstances we are all in.”

The Frank grunted, gesturing at the plumes of smoke rising from the many pyres blazing in the ruins of the town. Walls torn down, dead turning to ash, a rising community razed to the ground never to rise again. “Quite the circumstances, huh.”

“It is as it is.”

“Tell me, Ren,” Jaune pleaded. “Are we going any further than this?”

Ren mused silently for a while. “... We will be heading north.”

“And then?”

“We will set our eyes on Strigonium.”

Jaune's heart stilled. He gulped. “Strigonium?”

“I do not see in us the strength or the means to besiege the capital city of this kingdom,” Ren admitted. “I can only see us acting as scouts. Subetei _Ba'atar_ is a man of caution. He will not risk throwing us at stone walls when the better option is to break them down first.”

The Frank stared at the grass. Then at the Tartars walking around disposing of the dead. Too many times, he had glimpsed false images of Ruby and Blake, naked and lifeless, violated, burning. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. No. The girls were back in the camp, in the security of Subetei and his elite bodyguards.

Ren stood up and, with an extended hand, helped Jaune up. “The sun is going down. We will have to move elsewhere to pitch camp.”

“I guess I'll be seeing you around then.”

“Likewise, Jaune.”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 13, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: September 19, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 19, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

_**Kyrie eleis** _ **! = Lord God, have mercy on me! [Greek(?)] (Common battle cry in Medieval Europe)**

**_Vá_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_ = Castle warrior [Hungarian]**

**_Aimkhai_ = Coward [Mongolian]**


	10. Sharing

The next three days that followed the battle had been hard on his resolve as it was hard on his stomach.

Jaune was morose when he took part in the looting and the gathering up of the remaining dead. He sorted through the limbless and their limbs and handed over the severed heads to his comrades for them to build their altars to the damned. What precious treasures he found he had to surrender to Dur'qatai as was the practice among them when it came to sorting through bounty. In this way, the total yield would be counted and evenly distributed among the men often in accordance to how they performed in battle.

He was not expecting much for himself though. The Mongols—as Ren had insisted he refer to them publicly from now on—were not very rewarding to their slave warriors despite their bravery and acts of courage. Jaune knew he could invoke Yassa to get a little bit more but he was aware that relying too much on it over booty was going to dull his chances of using such law to save his life later on.

So he kept mum for the most part and let himself be passed over when Dur'qatai handed out the gold and the jewelry and the fine silks and tapestries. It was not like Jaune really needed them. He was not fond of flaunting wealth and only saw such things as currency to be bartered and traded for in exchange for the bare necessities such as food, water, and shelter. Besides, he already had a carpet in his own yurt back at the camp while walking about in finely tailored clothes enticed trouble stronger than honey enticed bees.

“Here,” his master grunted, finally tossing him his share: a pouch of copper coins and a few tarnished silver rings all wrapped in a dirty floral dress unceremoniously stripped from some dead woman.

Jaune customarily bowed his thanks. The coins he could use to buy food and supplies when he returned to the camp. The silver rings could be traded as well. The dress...it was neither too large for Ruby nor too small for Blake. He would have to show it to them anyway and if they liked it or saw some use for it then good.

Huh. He felt a little strange for that. Strange but not guilty. He was bringing home loot from a bloody raid for two girls who were themselves loot from different bloody raids.

As Dur'qatai sat back down, one of the members of his unit pointed to the bag with the black ribbon that his master always wrapped securely under his belt. Jaune watched the conversation, never understanding much of a word but discerning the gestures that came with it. Dur'qatai deflected as always and handed out the bowls for their merrymaking.

Jaune then excused himself when they started pouring the fermented milk and spouting their loud boisterous boasts. He took a few sips of his drink to show that he was still a part of the group before he got up and received Dur'qatai's permission to slip outside into the night sky.

The Frank breathed in the evening breeze, grateful that the wind was free of the odor of rotting flesh, and went to pack his share on the saddle of his horse tied to the pitching beside the tent. Yusehol whinnied then calmed at his presence while the other steeds ignored him.

“Easy, easy,” he cooed. “It's just me, Yuse.”

It was surprising to see the horse still alive and nibbling on a patch of grass not far from the broken down walls. His saddle was still in place and the reins hung in the hands of a Mongol warrior who happened upon him. The soldier recognized him and immediately surrendered the reins to the Frankish slave warrior. Jaune understood that the deed was more out of obeisance to Yassa than respect for him as a person.

He heard boots crunching on the grass and he turned around to see who it was.

“Not one to enjoy a drink with friends?” Qrow tittered. Ren was with him.

Jaune shook his head. “Not with most people.”

Qrow laughed while Ren wordlessly bowed in greeting. Something was in his hands.

“Not one to drink yourself, huh,” the Frank remarked.

“They have chosen to rest early after a day of much labor,” Ren said. “I hope the night is going well for you, Jaune.”

“It's going about as well as I hoped it would.”

The oldest among them simpered. “Got your loot?”

“Yeah.”

“What'd you get?”

“A dress and some coins.”

He chuckled. “A dress? Wow. You got a woman back at your _ordu_?”

Jaune flashed him a light glare.

Qrow's crimson eyes went wide. “ _L_ _ó_ _f_ _ü_ _tty_... You have a woman, don't you?”

“Qrow,” Ren interjected. “Perhaps we should let Jaune explain himself on this matter.”

The Magyar grinned and folded his arms. “Alright, alright. Tell us about your mistress, Jaune.”

“...not my mistress,” was all the Frank could manage through his teeth.

“What was that?”

“They are not my mistresses.”

Qrow raised his brow as his smile widened. “'They'? Oh, do tell.”

Jaune groaned into his palm. “I have two slaves, alright?”

Now it was Ren who was visibly surprised. “Two slaves?”

“Okay, one is a slave to me while the other is...of the same standing as I am. The three of us are slaves as much as the three of us here right now are slave-warriors.”

The other two kharash exchanged glances to which Qrow nodded at Ren who opened up the bag he was carrying and handed him a few other things that were more valuable than the bounty he received from his liege. Under the lamplight hanging from a post by the tent, Jaune lost his breath at what was before him.

There, on folded cloth in Ren's hand, lay a gold signet ring bearing the unmistakeable crest of the Arc family.

“This...where did you find this?”

Qrow thumbed the ruins they had created. “A merchant's house over there. I thought it looked familiar until I remembered something that you said about your family. That your coat of arms were two crescent moons, one larger than the other.”

Jaune wanted to touch it. This had to be what he thought it was. This was no coincidence.

“I thought it was just me until I turned it around. Right there. Carved on the inside...” Qrow did not need to point at the inscription.

Ren nodded at the Frank who then picked it up and held it against the lamplight. Jaune huffed in disbelief.

“ _Saphron D'Arc_.”

“I knew it,” grunted the older Magyar. “Someone you know?”

“Yeah... My sister.”

“Your sister,” repeated Qrow.

Jaune nodded, still drawn to the ring that he thought had been forever lost to his family years ago. “This belonged to my sister Saphron.”

“Huh. Lost, stolen, or sold?”

“Sold.”

“Hard times?”

The Frank nodded again. The Arc family had gone through many tribulations and one of the many ways to alleviate their burden was to give up their many precious properties and heirlooms. “This was a gift from a friend of hers when she was ten. She wore it everywhere. Then...the trials came and...we had to give up so many things just to pay for our sustenance.”

Jaune turned the ring over and over and felt for the grooves on the inside to remind him that this was indeed the real thing. Qrow and Ren were silent and had adjusted themselves on the hitching to listen attentively.

“It was a difficult decision for her, parting with this. I really didn't know then and I still don't know to this day why she held such value for something that...that was the least precious thing compared all our other wealth.”

He slipped the ring onto his finger. It still fit. Like it did years ago when he teased Saphron about it and would often snatch it from her and put it on just to get a rise out of her.

“I...I haven't seen Saphron in a long time... It feels like a long time.” Jaune pulled off the ring and stuffed it into his pack. Better that Dur'qatai not see this lest unwanted questions would come. He did not trust his liege with details about his family, no matter how far he was from them, when the noyan himself was a looming threat to Ruby and Blake.

“Do you still miss her?” Qrow asked him.

“Now that you mention it...I do. Yeah, I still do. I do miss my family. I just...never really tried to think about it too much. It only made me...it made it hard to focus on what I supposed to be doing at the time.”

When he saw that his companions had nothing more to say, Jaune hid the ring inside the pocket of his tunic under his armor while he tightened the straps on his knapsack beside his saddle.

“Thank you, Qrow, Ren. For bringing this to me.”

“Ah, don't mention it,” deflected the older Magyar. “Besides. Your _darga_ isn't very generous so this little piece ought to weigh down your bounty.”

Jaune chuckled at that. Qrow chuckled with him. Ren cracked a smile. And the three of them chatted of better things, exchanging tales of horse husbandry and groaning in mirth at anecdotes of Qrow's drunken debauchery before and after his enslavement by the Tartars. Later into the night, the Frank had learned more about his two new friends.

Qrow Branwen of Hungary had been a soldier grown bored of the near peaceful affairs in the Magyar domain that he left to enlist among the paid 'free' companies of the Holy Roman Empire and then later on plied his trade as a lone roving sell-sword. His adventures and misadventures were fitting of the lewd lyrics often sung in the most hedonistic of taverns. In stark contrast, Lie Ren of the greatly distant Orient lived a quiet life hunting game with his father in the vast plains of his homeland until they were absorbed into the Mongol army.

They would have continued swapping tales had Dur'qatai Noyan not swaggered outside to remind them that it was time for rest.

When the other two had departed, Jaune found himself under the wary eye of his master.

“You did not tell them of our little agreement?” Dur'qatai sneered.

“No, _Noyan_.”

His liege snorted. “Get inside unless you wish to sleep with the horses.”

Despite the sourness of his master, Jaune went to sleep in better spirits.

* * *

With what little time they could spare over three days of chores and other menial labor, it came as quite a surprise to Renjidai how fast Blake and Ruby were learning.

Having been trained in the basic arts of warfare in Lombardy, it was easier for Blake to remaster the bow with the caveat of using her thumb to notch the arrow instead of the three-finger lock that was the standard for the archery in most of Europe. On the other hand, Ruby interestingly proved her budding skill with daggers and even the European short sword the kheshig owned. The younger girl had her father and sister to thank for that.

“You have proper aim,” Renjidai remarked when he withdrew the arrow lodged near the center of the target he had set up on the outskirts of the camp. “I take it you were not born with this skill.”

“No,” Blake admitted, cradling the kheshig's bow.

“You have fought before.”

The Lombard nodded somberly.

Renjidai understood and did not push any further. “That should be enough for today.”

“Aw, I wanted to try,” Ruby whined.

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

Renjidai glanced to the sunset. It was time to retire for the day. The two girls were aware that too many questions were already being asked around the camp. The Tartars were becoming suspicious; they did not take kindly to two European slave women mastering the art of warfare. There was only so much the kharash could do to keep this going. His position and prestige was at risk and, much like Jaune, he only had Yassa to fall back to when things were dire.

“Does Subetei _Ba'atar_ know?” Blake asked him over dinner later that evening.

“I do not know.”

“Did he say anything about this?” Ruby added.

“I have not been summoned since I was sent to guard you.”

“What do you think is going to happen if he finds out?” the Magyar prodded anxiously. “What if he already knows and he's biding his time? What if...”

“I cannot say,” Renjidai answered calmly. “He is most cunning and does not share his plans even among the _noyanu'ud_.”

“Does he ever slip up?” Blake inquired.

“I have heard a few instances. However, I have not been in his service long enough to see them as anything more than hearsay.”

“How long have you been a kheshig?”

“No less than a year. Before that, I was a kharash like your friend _Numan_ for a long time.”

Blake and Ruby exchanged glances. That was something new from Renjidai. Perhaps that explained his benevolence and understanding of their predicament.

“You were not born a Tartar?” prodded Ruby.

Renjidai chuckled softly. “No, I was not.”

“You were one of the tribes they consumed,” Blake narrowed.

He nodded. “Such has happened there. Such will happen here.”

“Unless something else happens that changes the course of the campaign,” chirped the Magyar.

The other two stared at her, the kheshig with curiosity and the Lombard with wariness.

“ _Ukha'alag okhin_ ,” Renjidai sighed. “I cannot argue against that.”

Ruby bit her lip. She wanted to continue speaking her mind about Subetei but Blake's pointed look silenced her. They could not fully trust Renjidai. And that was difficult to consider after his generosity and kindness. From Jaune's stories of his experiences as a kharash and the Tartar culture she herself witnessed in the camp, she found it indisputable that the Tartars often abused trust to achieve victory in any capacity. Or the upper hand to the very least.

“I cannot guarantee any more time tomorrow,” the kheshig said. “You understand why.”

They nodded. The two girls could sacrifice a day of practice to keep their training secret. They could now rely a bit more on themselves now and their growing skill in the use of basic hunting tools, though minuscule, restored some of the courage they had lost when they were first put in chains. When Jaune would return—and they believed he would—he would not have to worry too much about them.

Renjidai stood up to leave. “Thank you for the meal, _Tseglata'ani_ , _Tsegarlun_.”

“Thank you for your time,” reciprocated the Lombard.

The kheshig smiled and bowed curtly with his fist pressed to his chest. “ _Saikhan amra'arai_.”

Blake handed him back his bow. “ _Vale_.”

Ruby surrendered his dagger. “ _J_ _ó_ _é_ _jszak_ _á_ _t_.”

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 29, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: October 2, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 2, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

**_Ordu_ = Horde [Mongolian] (synonymous with 'army camp')**

**_L_ _ó_ _f_ _ü_ _tty_ = Hungarian cuss word**

**_Ukha'alag okhin_ = Smart girl [Mongolian]**

**_Saikhan amra'arai_. = Goodnight. [Mongolian]**

**_Vale_. = Goodbye/Goodnight. [Latin] (pronounced 'wa-leh')**

**_J_ _ó_ _é_ _jszak_ _á_ _t_. = Goodnight [Hungarian]**


	11. Blind Retribution

Jaune held his breath upon seeing for the first time with his own eyes the unadulterated heartland of the Kingdom of Hungary. Miles of low marshes and rolling autumn pastureland separated him and the rest of the Tartar vanguard from the city of Strigonium. The walled stone citadel that served as the home of the Magyar crown towered over the city from the hill while a bountiful river flowed beside it, sustaining the surrounding township.

“Beautiful, is it not?” Dur'qatai remarked.

“Yes, _noyan_. It is.” Bathed in the bright glow of the rising sun and set against rolling clouds, Strigonium and all its domain created a worthy masterpiece coveted by many a passionate painter.

Jaune had to remind himself that this whole region was Ruby's home. In that castle on that hill was sheltered King Bela IV, the cautious Hungarian sovereign whom Ruby's father dutifully served. In that city somewhere, among those domiciles scattered by the banks of the river, lived Ruby's sister. And probably some of her friends as well, all of whom no doubt had been in mourning at the loss of the poor Magyar girl.

“Do you smell it?”

Jaune turned to his master. “Smell what, _noyan_?”

“The harvest. Do you smell the grains, the meats, and lentils hoarded in their storehouses?”

He narrowed his eyes as he regarded the city from their unobstructed perch many leagues away. He could not smell anything though he did understand what his liege was implying. “It is close to winter.”

“Yes. It is. And they are reaping in their food for the cold season. A shame if something were to happen to their farms and their storehouses, no?”

The Frank gulped. His skin crawled at the scenery conjured by his imagination. Strigonium in flames. The houses ablaze, the river spilling over the embankments from the corpses being heaped into it, the stone walls of the castle reduced to rubble, and King Bela IV and his court being marched out to be summarily executed in the most brutal way possible by the victorious troops of Prince Batu and his marshal Subetei. Among them, Ruby's father and sister, either bound in chains or stacked among the dead.

He blinked once and he breathed a little easier at the serene landscape painted in a beautiful orange light by the rising sun. His relief quickly soured by the thought of Strigonium's impending doom.

“Your slave girl is from here, if I remember properly,” Dur'qatai said.

Jaune felt a bitter taste in his mouth upon hearing the malice in his master's voice.

“I have seen enough,” yawned the Tartar. “We ride back now before we are seen.”

“Yes, _noyan_.”

The vanguard wheeled around and followed the same path they had taken back towards their encampment a few miles south. The road was uneven and less trod as it snaked through the wetlands and through a thick marsh that hid their main force from the Hungarian scouts. It could have been a cold and uneventful ride had it not been for a sudden encounter in the bog that separated the Tartars from their comrades.

* * *

Blake roused Ruby earlier than usual. The Magyar girl groaned but when she heard the noise outside their tent and glimpsed the panic evident on the Lombard's face, she snapped out of her beddings and reached for the nearest thing that she could use as a weapon to defend herself with.

There was a heavy knocking on the door followed by Renjidai's voice.

“ _Tseglata'ani_ , _Tsegarlun_! It is me, Renjidai. I am here. There is nothing to fear.”

After a brief, wordless debate, Blake inched to the entrance and held open the door. The kheshig stood outside. Behind him passed a line of curious Tartars; soldiers and their families shambling by after being woken by Subetei's heralds.

“You must come with me.” It was more an order than a request.

“Why? What's going on?” demanded the Lombard.

“There is a public sentencing taking place,” Renjidai answered quickly. “Everyone must witness it.”

“Public sentencing?” Ruby croaked from behind her wooden ladle of a club.

“A public trial,” Blake echoed. The principle of Yassa floated into her mind. “An execution.”

Renjidai was stone-faced but the dryness in his eyes said all. Refusal to attend meant queries which would lead to suspicion. He gestured at them to follow him and the two girls did.

They followed the crowd until they reached the central yard of the camp where a man bound by his wrists was forced onto his knees. He appeared to be of the same ilk as his tormentors; Oriental in appearance and dressed in the same clothes as the men serving the Tartar army. Already, there were jeers and shouts from some among the audience.

To the surprise of the two Europeans and even some among the other people around them, Subetei himself walked into the yard with an air of authority that cast a wave of silence over the haughty taunters. The Tartar marshal waved his hand and the soldiers dragged their prisoner up to the wooden platform that had been constructed over the spot where Ruby and Blake had once been put on display for sale as slaves.

Subetei then addressed the crowd with a voice so unlike the soft and tender humming that could have put an infant to sleep. He spoke in that indiscernible language of the Tartars.

While many of the words were lost to them, Blake and Ruby understood fully what was being communicated through the fear in the prisoner's eyes and the eagerness in the faces of the soldiers surrounding him. What followed next matched what Jaune had told them of how the Tartars dealt with lawbreakers.

Subetei barked a few words and the soldiers forced the man to stand. He was given a chance to say his peace which he did in broken sobs. The marshal then nodded to one of the men holding the captive.

Ruby cupped her mouth yet found herself unable to turn away. Blake was as silent and stone-faced as Renjidai.

In a quick moment, the executioner brought the man down hard on his knee. There was a loud crack, followed by a short gasp, and the prisoner limped over his leg in a position that was completely unnatural to the human body. With lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, he was dropped onto the ground and then later hefted onto the saddle of a horse which was then led to the outskirts of the camp to be properly disposed of.

Some of the crowd followed while the rest dispersed back to their tents. It was over.

Blake heard sniffles and quickly wrapped her arms around Ruby who quietly shed her tears against her bosom. Renjidai said no words and only stood by, guarding them as was his duty.

As the crowd thinned, the Lombard noticed Subetei still lingering behind the platform. The marshal had been observing them. She stared back wide-eyed. She felt Ruby stop and saw that the Magyar too stilled upon seeing him.

Subetei Ba'atar offered a short yet knowing nod before he vanished behind his retinue of guards who escorted him back to his yurt.

* * *

Unlike before, Jaune had steeled himself for the engagement. He saw the riders coming during their descent back into the swamp they had passed through hours before and drew his sword in anticipation of the melee that would ensue in the shallow waters of this tightly packed wooded marsh. There was no use in drawing his bow for there were too many trees and shrubs all densely packed together.

His formal training in Masovia and the experience he accumulated in both the lands of the Rus' and the territories conquered by the Mongols blessed him with a commendable lethality with the blade. As such, he was confident he could hold his own in this fight.

Dur'qatai barked orders and his unit dispersed. Ren's unit also spread out between the trees. He could barely see neither Ren nor Qrow when Yuse galloped deep into the bog.

Jaune was confident though that he could dispatch the first foe he would run into. What cracked his confidence however was when he saw his opponents. A dozen or so horsemen in hauberks led by two knights. One was draped in black, the other in white, both were protected by finely hammered steel and tightly-linked mail. Such equipment could not have been provided by the Hungarians after the bloodletting at Lignicka and Mohi.

The knight in white yelled out a single word and Jaune yanked on the reins to steer Yuse back.

Small in number as they were, the horsemen mounted a small charge through the knee deep water. It was a tactic so commonly used yet rarely executed perfectly and this morning was one of those uncommon times when he could rightly say he was witness to a well-done cavalry charge...performed by a dozen riders...led by two well-equipped knights.

Jaune felt the rush of the incoming force even before he was struck. His eyes went wide when he recognized the face of the black knight who had caught up with him. His visor was lifted and there was no mistaking the absolute bewilderment on Cardin Winchester, servant of the Order of Saint John.

The Frank tried to stay atop the saddle but the weight of the blow from the shaft of Cardin's mace dragged him down. He landed with a loud splash into the muddy waters of the bog while Yuse reared.

The next thing Jaune saw before he was once again dragged into the skirmish was the knight in white deflecting the swing from Qrow Branwen who appeared more than surprised than he was. Probably not at the fact that the older Magyar was fighting a servant of the Order of Solomon's Temple, rather at the similar situation where he too recognized his opponent.

There was another splash and Jaune saw Cardin forced off his mount by Ren who rode back into the gathering mist of the swamp.

The Frank and the Hospitaller eyed each other above the surface of the water.

“Jaune? D'Arc!?”

“Cardin,” Jaune coughed back, staggering to his feet. “Winchester...”

Cardin got up to stand, stripped of his mace. “You...you're alive...?”

“I wish I wasn't.”

More splashes. Half the combatants were dismounted and slogged against their opponents amid the shrubbery of the bog. With a cloud descending upon them, the shapes of the fighters were becoming indiscernible.

“You're...one of them now?” demanded the Hospitaller Knight.

“I didn't have a choice,” defended the Frankish kharash.

The shock on Cardin's face morphed into an angry grimace. His gauntleted hands curled into fists. “I don't believe that.”

Jaune equally growled back. “Believe what you want. It's the truth.”

“Truth? You left! You left the Holy Truth for the wealth of the Rus'!”

“Better I protect the Christian Rus' from the pagans than fight the Christians in the Holy Roman Empire!”

“You traitor,” snarled the Hospitaller. “You heathen!”

And for the first time since his days as a struggling squire in Masovia, Jaune Arc was once more embroiled in a bitter brawl with his old rival Cardin Winchester.

* * *

“That was a Tartar, right?”

Blake glanced up after setting down the pole that held up the quintain into the grass. Ruby was staring at her with ashamed curiosity while she fiddled with the loose thread hanging from her sleeves.

“What do you think his crime was?”

“I don't know,” the Lombard replied. It could have been a myriad of crimes ranging from the most petty to the most severe. Yet the punishment was almost always the same as dictated by Yassa.

“That was...that was Yassa,” the Magyar croaked. “Right?”

Blake nodded while she padded the tightly-wound limbs of hay and the disused leather straps that Renjidai had provided them for target practice.

“What was his crime?” Ruby asked.

“I don't know,” she repeated. “Probably something serious.”

“If...if we get caught...are we going to...to...”

“Ruby,” Blake sighed, herself struggling not to be intimidated by the execution they had only witnessed early this morning. “I don't think what we're doing counts as breaking any rules. There was nothing that ever said that we weren't supposed to train.”

“Then why are we doing this in secret?” Ruby gestured to the wide meadow that separated them from the rest of the Tartar camp. It was an area deemed poor for grazing and unremarkable for anything the Tartars thought useful.

“You know why.”

The Magyar bit her lip. It was obvious she was wondering what Jaune would have done if he were here.

Blake took Ruby by the arms. “Hey. _Noli angi_. I'm with you in this.”

Quivering. “I...I don't know...”

The Lombard pressed her forehead against hers. “ _Esto robustus_. Don't let the things we've seen bother you. Please.”

The Magyar nodded shakily. Her lips were not trembling yet they moved with whispers that Blake caught under her breath. The words were familiar and immediately she recognized the verse from which Ruby was praying out of memory. One of many that the priests and Papal legates always hammered into their heads in Lombardy and the rest of Christendom.

Minutes later, they separated with confidence to see Renjidai standing patiently five paces away, his smile comforting and his eye knowing. Blake and Ruby informed him that they were ready to continue their training.

“Amen,” concluded the Oriental kheshig before he handed them his bow, his quiver, and his dagger.

* * *

Jaune landed three solid punches before Cardin swung hard against his stomach. While segmented plates did well to protect against the searing edge of an arrow or the serrated curve of a sword, they did little to soften the blow of a gauntleted fist. All air left his lungs and he backpedaled back into the quagmire. His body was inundated and he fought through the pain to avoid drowning in two feet of water.

There was another splash beside him and he heaved up out of the bog to witness Cardin coughing as he groveled on his knees in the mud. Behind him, Qrow Branwen clasped the shaft of his own mace. Blood seeped down his temples and caked his beard.

“Jaune,” barked the older Magyar. “Are you alright?”

The Frank shook his head. He lost his horse and his sword. His bow had been ripped from his back while his quiver had been emptied when he was unhorsed. He sucked in breath to balance out the pain in his abdomen.

Qrow pushed towards him only to stop and suddenly turn to meet the man he had been dueling since the start of the skirmish.

Jaune staggered up and leaned against a tree as Cardin scrambled to steady himself by a log. They both eyed the other with due hatred then centered their attention on the Templar Knight standing before the Magyar kharash.

“Qrow!” barked the Frank.

“ _Herr_ Ozma!” cried the Hospitaller.

The Templar raised his sword at Qrow. With his visor down, they were denied his face. But his voice, though muffled, was calm and the tone he used was as empowering and terrifying as that of Subetei Ba'atar.

“ _Ú_ _r_ Branwen. Stand down.”

“I don't follow your orders, Oz,” spat Qrow. “Not anymore.”

Sir Ozma of the Order of the Temple of Solomon sighed. “You're a good man, Qrow. Have you sold yourself fully to the Tartars?”

“I chose life when all the other options were death.” The Magyar kharash twirled his mace. “You wouldn't understand. Or maybe you would. You're a smart guy, I'll give you that.”

“ _Herr_ Ozma,” gasped Cardin. “Do you know him?”

Ozma nodded. “He was my subordinate. More than once a brother in arms.”

“That was a long time ago,” Qrow snorted.

The Templar chuckled bitterly. “Not too long ago for many others, it seemed.”

Jaune felt his jaw hanging agape. He knew Cardin. Cardin knew him. Qrow knew this Templar. The Templar also knew Qrow. And after slugging at each other, here they stood in the middle of a swamp, wading in knee-high water, and eyeing each other like hawks. A single move and it would be another melee and one that could be decisive, one that could end with someone dying.

Neighing.

Heads snapped to the shadow galloping through the mist. The shape darkened until the lusted face of Dur'qatai Noyan emerged, his teeth bared and his sword raised. There was a rapidity with how he took in the four of them and while his determined mien faltered, his horse did not and he swept his blade down at the nearest target.

Ozma the Templar reacted quickly and deflected the blade with his own. Steel bounced against steel and Dur'qatai's arm recoiled back. The water had slowed his horse too much and the Tartar officer was reeled off his saddle.

Jaune's mind stopped at the sight of his master splashing into the bog. He reached out to desperately to get back onto his horse but the underbrush in the quagmire dragged at his legs and his steed galloped mindlessly away from him.

“ _Numan_!” Dur'qatai cried out.

For the first time since he had met his liege, he saw panic in his eyes. Those same eyes that bore nothing but contempt for him. Those same eyes that lusted after Ruby and Blake. Those same eyes that relished in the agony of the people that were given no quarter. Those same eyes now screamed at him, begging for help.

Jaune gripped the tree harder.

“ _Numan_! Help me!”

He shook his head slowly.

Dur'qatai's face morphed in horror and he frantically threw up his sword to block Ozma's attack. Once again, steel bounced off steel. Qrow spared a confused look at Jaune before he threw himself upon the Templar, tackling him into the shrubbery.

The Frank was thinking differently now. Perhaps it was the two winters of enslavement or maybe it had been the months of unforgiving labor and verbal abuse that had been heaped upon him since his enslavement. Regardless, something bitter and strong welled up within him and he released his fingers from the bark.

“Arc!” barked Cardin who struggled to intercept him, the weight of his armor working with the murky water to slow his steps.

Jaune ignored his old rival. Instead, he pushed forward to his master. Dur'qatai Noyan pushed himself up to a knee as he wiped away dirt and mud from his eyes.

The Frankish kharash delivered a boot to his chin. The Tartar fell back into the water and was submerged once again. His hands flailed but Jaune dropped atop him and pushed his whole weight over his master's chest. He wormed his fingers through the marsh until he wrapped around his throat. Then he squeezed.

Jaune squeezed with all his might. He squeezed and squeezed until his liege stopped struggling and his arms lay still and the body underneath him ceased to struggle. Bubbles rose to the surface but he held on until he could see no more. He rose up from the water, pulling up his victim by the neck. Dur'qatai Noyan hung limp and heavy with water flowing out of his mouth and nostrils and his eyes peeled back until they were nearly white.

He had killed his master.

No. He had murdered him.

“Arc! What are you—”

Jaune ignored Cardin and heaved until he flipped his master's body over. It sunk back into the water but he found what he was looking for. Latched onto his belt was the bag tied with the long black ribbon. It was drenched now. He hoped that whatever lay inside resisted the damaging water. Though the lace was tightly wound, it was not difficult to undo.

The bag was neither as heavy nor as light as he expected. Something metallic was in it. As was something else, hard as wood yet malleable like clay.

“Jaune,” a calmer voice called.

Jaune looked up and saw Ren Lie standing five paces away holding his cudgel while the unmoving form of Cardin Winchester slumped against another tree, a small dent in the back of his helmet. There was no mistaking the surprise on the younger noyan's face.

“Jaune!”

The Frank turned around. There was Qrow heaving for breath with blood running down his temple to his beard. The shock on his face reeled him out of his reverie and he stared down at the bag that he held in his hands then to the body of his master floating at against his boots.

“ _Jaj istenem_ ,” gasped the older Magyar. “What have you done?”

Jaune stared between his two only friends in the Tartar army. His mouth worked itself yet no words came.

Voices. The other Tartars calling out to each other. Searching for their comrades.

Qrow and Ren snapped at each other. Then, without a word, they grabbed Jaune by the armpits and dragged him away. The Frank tried to protest but was once again silenced by his own shock at what he had just done. The most he could do was follow along, catching up as best he could with the pace set by his companions.

The voices seemed to soften yet Jaune chanced a glance over his shoulder to be sure. In their wake, instead of the Tartar vanguard emerging through the trees, he caught the fading image of the Templar Knight, blood spattered over his dirtied white tunic, helping up the Hospitaller who was wincing at the pain in the back of his head.

“You've damned yourself, Jaune,” growled Qrow.

“Not now, Qrow,” scolded Ren.

Jaune was silent, his head hanging from his shoulders and the bag with the black ribbon still held tightly in his hand.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 29, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: October 13, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 13, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

**_Noli angi_. = Don't worry. [Latin]**

**_Esto robustus_. = Be strong. [Latin]**

**_Herr_ = Mister/Sir [German]**

**_Jaj istenem_. = Oh my God. [Hungarian]**


	12. Ignorance

Jaune Arc sat with his head bowed in silent shame on the southern edge of the bog while Qrow paced back and forth raving at him in three tongues.

“...damned yourself this time. They find out about this, you're dead! What were you thinking, _balfasz_!? _Mi a b_ _á_ _natos pics_ _áé_ _rt kellett ezt tenned_!?”

Ren reached out to his subordinate. “Qrow. He's heard enough.”

“I haven't said enough!” snapped the older Magyar. “This brainless fool murdered his own _darga_! And not just in front of us but right in front of two Papal knights as well! Do you know what that means? Do you know what Yassa is going to demand for this!?”

“I know. Now have you finally said your peace?”

Qrow turned to the Frank who remained seated on the wet grass, his knees pulled up his to chest and his eyes still focused on the empty patch of quagmire churned up by his stomping. “I have much more to say. Oh, I have so much more to say. Are you proud of yourself now, Jaune? Eh? Are you happy that you got rid of your 'yoke?' Because a bigger yoke will be cast on your neck when we get back!”

“Do they know?” Ren interjected.

“The others? Perhaps. I don't know. The only witnesses are you and I. And those two knights.”

“Then that settles it.”

“Settles what?”

The young darga stood and leveled his subordinate with a glare that seemed to put the older man in his place. “For Jaune's sake, you and I will say nothing about this until it is asked of us.”

Qrow shook his head in disgust. “Are you serious? You want me to protect this little weasel? For this? What about us? This is compliance to a crime against Yassa law! We'll be risking our own hides for something that we didn't even fucking do! What if they find out that we're helping him!?”

“ _If_ they find out.”

“They _will_ find out. If not today, then soon. We may be far away from the others for now but when we return, they'll be asking questions. Questions that we will have to answer truthfully lest Yassa will—”

“I know what Yassa will demand!” Ren snapped. “And unless you want your head on a pike, you will do what I tell you.”

Jaune looked up for the first time since he was dragged out of the bog. His hands remained tightly wrapped around the bag with the black ribbon as he watched his fellow kharash argue amongst themselves. Over him. Over what he did. Just like home, when his father and mother argued for hours on end over his squireship to the Teutonic Knights. It was painful.

“You're going to kill us all,” Qrow hissed.

“Our fates are already sealed,” Ren countered. “Help him up. We are returning to the camp. We will claim ignorance and loss of focus because of this ambush.”

“Ambush? We saw them coming and they ran into us! And what about our horses? They've run off God knows where!”

“I'll handle the horses. You handle Jaune. And stay out of trouble.”

“With our luck, trouble will be coming to us.”

“Then keep trouble away.”

“And if they ask questions? About the missing _noyan_? What if they found his body and see no injuries borne from swords?”

“Feign ignorance. Lie if you have to.”

The older Magyar shook his head. “ _Az istenit_.”

Ren's voice came out low and commanding. “Am I understood, Qrow?”

Qrow was sour even as he gracelessly pulled Jaune up to stand. “Understood, Renkhai _Darga_.”

* * *

Blake and Ruby were hefting buckets of mare's milk back to their tent for curdling when they saw the lone Tartar horseman ride in from the west. When asked, Renjidai dismissed him as simply a herald who was bringing in reports from the large Tartar force that had been sent out a week ago. Unassuming as it was, Ruby felt an uneasy knot warping in her stomach. It appeared that Blake did too.

It could have been their intuition or the manner with which the messenger carried himself when he arrived. Too serious, too fidgety, too rigid even. The petite Magyar slave girl did notice that the man headed straight for the center of the camp, no doubt towards Subetei Ba'atar himself. This time, she tried not to bother herself with it. The message could mean anything.

Later that evening, word spread throughout the camp that a knight had been captured alive and was being brought back to the camp to be evaluated for service. Ruby felt her heart skip a beat. A knight. Could it be her father? Captured as she was?

No. Her father was too skilled to be subdued and too stubborn to submit to the enemies of the Pope or the King. He had told his daughters many times in the past that if given the choice, he would rather die with a sword in hands than be a subject in chains to the heathens destroying Christendom.

“It could be anyone,” Blake assured her over dinner.

“You're right,” Ruby sighed. “There are lots of knights out there. He could be anyone from anywhere.”

Feeling a bit relieved, the Magyar retired for the night after praying to God that Jaune would be on his way back so that she could feel him once again.

* * *

Reuniting with the rest of the Mongol vanguard was a difficult affair. Jaune, Qrow, and Ren 'limped' back to their comrades and were immediately assailed with questions. Of course, they lied through their teeth and had been persistent with their lies that the Mongol captains directed them back to the quartermasters for rest.

Conveniently—or perhaps it was God's blessing or the possibility that horses have minds of their own—Yusehol was tied to a post along with Qrow's and Ren's steeds.

Jaune then quickly hid the bag with the black ribbon under his saddle knowing that Yassa law prevented anyone from going through his belongings while he was being treated for his 'injuries.' His unit mourned in the way of the Tartars the death of the 'venerable' Dur'qatai Noyan. The standard bearer and the seven other men in his unit were silent and morose during the execution of the pagan funeral rituals that was custom to the Mongols.

He found it bitterly ironic even though he had seen it done countless times before. Many Mongols had fallen in battle and each man was revered in a way by those around him. It was jarring however to consider that these same men, grieving in silence, would later on pick up their bows and maces and go about rampaging like unrestrained demons, tearing babies from the wombs of pregnant women and clobbering the defenseless men in the back of their skulls even after they had already been bound.

Jaune said nothing and heard nothing in return from the others. Even Ren and Qrow, who had managed to preserve for this long the lie that Dur'qatai Noyan was felled by the Magyars in that ambush in the bog, were tightlipped. Despite the fact that another vanguard had retrieved the dead man's bloated corpse and were thoroughly suspicious to the absence of any cuts or open wounds, everyone in the whole army believed that one of their own had been slain by the desperate Hungarians.

The four thousand strong force had since journeyed south, churning up the grass of virgin Hungarian lands on the return trip to their respective base camps on the eastern fringes of the Great Hungarian Plain. Throughout the journey back, the Frank felt more and more ostracized. And he guessed that he was perhaps hated now. He could tell that his own unit wordlessly blamed him for the death of their leader. And while they thought that he was negligent in his duty—regardless of the bold lies he, Ren, and Qrow insisted—they were right to suspect that he was responsible for Dur'qatai's passing.

Jaune found no solace on the following two nights since the skirmish in the marsh. Instead of sleeping on moving horseback, their commanders decided to pitch tents on fertile meadows. As the horses were loosed to graze, riders like him were relegated in their shelters. Even then, the air in the yurt the Frank shared with his comrades was suffocating so he decided to spend the rest of the evening hours sleeping among the horses, close to Yusehol. He could stomach the stench of manure. Besides, other Mongols were doing the same, some sleeping outside for their own reasons.

He awoke very early on the third day since Dur'qatai's death. Qrow had been nudging him in the ribs with his boot.

“Wake up,” he gruffly ordered. “There's still time before the sun rises.”

Jaune silently got up, shivered at the early morning gale, rolled up his beddings, and tucked them behind the saddle on his horse.

Qrow was quick to seize his hand. He pulled it back before he could fold his knapsack down. Partly revealed under the saddle was the long black ribbon that had been tied to into another knot to keep from slipping free.

“So that's it, eh?”

The Frank tried to speak only for his throat to dry up under the withering glare of the older Magyar kharash.

“This is what you ki—” Qrow stopped himself. He let go of his hand and leaned in close so that his rancid breathe assaulted Jaune's nostrils. “Is this what you killed him for?”

This time, he answered. With a silent nod.

“That thing better be fucking worth it.”

“It is,” he croaked, even though he had no idea what was inside. What he did know was that he had fulfilled his duty to Blake...if he could ever call this a duty. So far, the life of his cold Mongol overlord had been the price paid for the happiness of his dear friend. And that was at least a happy thing to consider.

Qrow shook his head at him. “I don't know what it is that's in that bag and I don't want to know. You're not the greedy type but I could be wrong. But don't expect me to come to your rescue again no matter what Ren says. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“Now pack up. You know what to do. Take down your _ger_ and check in with the quartermaster. If things will go smoothly, we would back in your _ordu_ by nightfall of tomorrow.”

Jaune stopped working on his mount. “My _ordu_?”

“Yes. Your _ordu_. New orders arrived late last night. Our _ja'khun_ will be switching with one of yours.”

“Switching?”

“We will be transferred to your _mi_ _ng'khan_. Another would be transferred to ours to fill our place. I don't know why and I don't want to know why. If you ask me, I think Subetei Ba'atar is switching things up for another offensive. I can't say for sure.”

The Frank slowly nodded. “He's...unpredictable.”

“Is he now?” Qrow noted. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“Other than what everyone else thinks of him?” Jaune groused. “He's smart, ruthless, cunning, and manipulative.”

“Flattering. How would you know all that about him?”

The Frank growled. “He commands my _ordu_. I live in his camp! I served his lackeys since the Rus' and did my dues in front of him so much so that he now watches over my...my...”

“Over your what?” Qrow prodded.

Jaune tried not to meet the scrutinizing glare burning into his shoulder. His throat was dry yet he managed to squeeze out a reply. “I don't know anything else about Subetei Ba'atar, if that's what you're trying to get at.”

“Come on now, Jaune. What is it about you that he watches over?” He bent down slightly to glare at him in the eyes. “I would like to know if we would be walking into trouble when we get to your _ordu_. And I am not in the mood for surprises so you better tell me now.”

A gulp. “I...I have two slaves...”

A snort. “ _Igen_. I know. What about them?”

“Subetei Ba'atar...offered to have his personal guard...watch over them...in my absence.”

The older Magyar released a long whistle as he leaned back. “Really now. Something special in those kharash then to have the marshal himself keep an eye on them for you.”

“They're not kharash.” Jaune stilled his breathing. “They're...they're slave girls. They were taken from...y-you know where they get them.”

“... You also know why they get them.”

The Frank kept his fists to his sides. “I didn't do any of the sort if that's what you're implying.”

“Oh? So tell me then why you supposedly own two slave girls—”

“I saved them!” Jaune snapped.

Qrow, neither cowed nor offended, raised a brow. “You...saved them?”

“I...I had to. Otherwise, they would have been, well...subject to the others. And with how old one of them was, I couldn't stomach letting her suffer such a fate.”

“How old are they? Your slaves?”

Jaune puckered his lip. He could trust Qrow despite his disapproval over what he had done. The man had been and was still a comrade who freely talked to him without being ordered to do so. “One is fifteen. The other is around my age.”

“Fifteen? _Istenem_...”

“I know. I had to do something. I couldn't just...leave her there.”

“So you bought a child, basically.”

“She's not...” The Frank sighed. “She behaves like a child but she has the mind of a stubborn, faithful woman. I bought her to keep her from being...defiled.”

“What about the other one?”

“She's...stoic. She can be inquisitive at times. She's also far more responsible with the chores and quite keen with details. Then again, she often doesn't share any more about herself. I can understand why and I let her keep her secrets to herself.”

“And you bought her too?”

“No. Dur'qatai did. He threw her in with me expecting me to whip her into shape. She was defiant when she first arrived and I guess that rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.”

“You slept with her?”

Jaune recoiled. “What!? No! Qrow, I told you that I am not that kind of person!”

Qrow appeared skeptical. “Would it offend you if I ask their names?”

The Frank slumped against the pitching where Yusehol had been tied to. “Would it offend you if I would rather not tell you?”

The older Magyar shrugged. “Fair enough. I won't pry.”

That was a relief. For now.

* * *

There was a clamor in the camp the day after the herald had delivered his message. Blake and Ruby followed Renjidai to the central courtyard where a small raiding party, different and separate from the larger group that Jaune had rode out with, arrived with two captives stripped to their tunics. Two men, one noticeably younger than the other. Both were unshaven and bruised. Both bore bulging muscles that had been abused by their binds and weakened by the long journey they had been forced to tread. Both followed after a horseman who had gleaming steel pieces of mail and chain tied to the back of his saddle.

Said steel pieces were wrapped in two layers of cloth: one white, one black. Despite the improper folds, the bright red cross was traceable one the white tunic as was the white cross emblazoned on the black shield hanging off the saddle of the Tartar raider.

“Papal knights,” Blake breathed.

Ruby gulped. “Are these who they were talking about?”

“They are,” Renjidai confirmed.

The three of them stood on the edge of the small crowd that had gathered to witness the new additions to the slave community. As common as this was in the world of the Tartars, the presence of more captives was enough to rouse the curiosity of many among them. Ruby, Blake, and Renjidai idled with their baskets and tools as the two captives were paraded past them.

The younger man, a brute of a youth with short brown hair and an angry unshaven face, blinked in surprise upon seeing the girls. The older one trudging beside him sighed and shook his head in resignation. They said nothing even as they held each others' gazes as long as they could.

In that moment, Ruby took a risk. She raised her voice. “ _V_ _á_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_?”

The two men paused in their step. Their heads snapped to her as did Blake, Renjidai, and even the riders who were annoyed that they had been interrupted. Before anyone could say anything more, the captain of the party rode to the back and barked something harsh towards his subordinates. He then glowered at Ruby before plodding to the front as the troupe resumed moving through the camp.

Blake grabbed Ruby by the wrist and hissed, “Don't ever do that again.”

“I'm sorry,” mewled the younger girl. “I had to know...”

“It's clear that they're knights. What else did you even want to know?”

“If they were from Strigonium,” echoed Ruby. “If they've captured knights from there...”

“We have seized many knights before,” Renjidai said. “Even then, capturing one alive is a rare feat. Many often fall on their own swords than submit to our chains.”

The Lombard shook her head, realizing Ruby's ignorance of the colors of the Papal knights. Then again, the Templars and the Hospitallers were busy bleeding in the Holy Land to bleed elsewhere so it was a surprise to her as well that the loot flaunted by the Tartars in this raiding party were no doubt forged by the blacksmiths of the Holy Orders. That begged so many new questions: were the Papal knights here? What were they doing here? Had the Pope announced a new crusade against the Tartars?

“We can find that out later,” she insisted both to herself and to Ruby. “Just don't speak up like that again, okay? Ruby?”

The Magyar girl sighed apologetically. “I won't. I'm sorry.”

“Good.” Blake sighed, letting go of her wrist. “At least we know...that's two less trained warriors for the Kingdom of Hungary.”

The kheshig placed on his hands on their shoulders. “That is enough for today. There is nothing more to see.”

There was no going against that for the two girls. Renjidai may be generous but he still had a duty to uphold and that often meant that his orders were not up for question. Casting a final glance at the two shackled knights, the two slave girls turned back and returned to their duties.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 13, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: November 11, 2019**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 11, 2019**

* * *

******Translations:**

**_Balfasz_ = Hungarian cuss word**

**_Mi a b_ _á_ _natos pics_ _áé_ _rt kellett ezt tenned_!? = Why the fuck did you do this!? [Hungarian]**

**_Az istenit_. = Hungarian cuss word**

**_Ger_ = Yurt/Mongolian tent**

**_Ordu_ = Horde [Mongolian]**

**_Ja'khun_ = Mongol military unit comprising 100 men**

**_Ming'khan_ = Mongol military unit comprising 1,000 men**

**_Igen_. = Yes. [Hungarian]**

**_Istenem_ = (Oh) My God [Hungarian]**

**_V_ _á_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_ = Castle warrior [Hungarian]**


	13. Curiosity

It had been two weeks since Jaune departed the main camp of Subetei Ba'atar to ride west into the heart of the Kingdom of Hungary with a portion of the Mongol army. Now, upon returning to what had been his home since the Kievan Rus', it felt like he had been gone for over a month.

As euphoric as it was, the Frank had to keep his emotions inside himself lest he offend any of the soldiers he was riding with. Many of them, his own unit included, already expressed their distaste for him in light of the death of a known Mongol noble, one of the very few among their number who had fallen during their excursion. Ren and Qrow translated that much in the few moments they had amongst themselves. Their lies held, however, and Jaune prayed that it would continue to hold.

Even then, his doubts were resurfacing as he rode past the boundaries of the horde. He was back within earshot of the man who skillfully used deception and political intrigue to destroy entire kingdoms in months. How could he, a slave warrior, fool a master of lies? No less with an excuse that was barely holding up against his comrades?

The other soldiers had already gone ahead, leaving him behind with the baggage train. He watched them return to their friends, their own families. Along with every other man in the hundreds-strong force.

Jaune tasted something bitter in his mouth upon seeing these Tartars—no, 'Mongols'—happily returning to the arms of their own kin. Those same hands that embraced their wives and their mothers, those same hands that held up their laughing children, those same hands that mercilessly loosed arrows into innocents and wickedly struck down defenseless citizens. He looked away if only to spare the spiteful spirit of irony cackling with the voice of the Devil in his head.

“Jaune!”

Was that...?

“Jaune! Over here!”

He had been so lost in thought that Yusehol plodded unrestrained through rows of tents. And now he was being greeted by the two most precious people in his life right now. It took him a full moment to convince himself that they were indeed real and that he was indeed back home. Well, as far as 'home' was defined in this sense.

“Jaune! _H_ _á_ _ll_ _á_ _Istenn_ _é_ _k_ , you're back!” cried Ruby Rose, daughter of Hungary.

Behind her, a beaming Blake Belladonna of the Lombard League wiped her face with her sleeve.

Seeing them both restored the colors that had faded from the world around him. The Frank pulled on the reins, bringing Yusehol to a halt. Ruby stood there waiting. He slipped off his saddle and they wrapped each other in a tearful embrace.

“I missed you,” she whimpered. “I missed you so much!”

“I missed you, too,” he answered.

“Blake and I...w-we...we did so much...”

He rubbed her back while she sobbed onto the armored padding of his leather tunic. In the corner of his vision stood Blake. The Lombard idled a few paces away with her arms folded over her stomach, happy that he had returned safe. And beside her approached another man. A taller man. A man with a sharp Tartar face—strangely reminding him of Ren in a way—and wearing the coveted segmented plates of Subetei Ba'atar's elite bodyguard, complete with a scabbarded blade strapped to his hip, a bow slung over his shoulder, and an ornate quiver filled with arrows.

Immediately his smile wavered. Ruby felt him detach from her and she cupped his face to direct his attention towards her.

“Jaune? What's wrong?”

Jaune gulped. “Nothing. I, uh...”

The bodyguard spoke in a voice that reminded him so much of his dead master. “Welcome back, Jaune Arc, son of the Franks.”

Frightened as he was, the Frank managed to hold his composure and reciprocate with a light bow. “Pardon me, _a-ge_. I don't think we've met before.”

The man chuckled. “Ah, my apologies. I go by the name of Renjidai. I have been tasked by Subughatai Baghatar to ensure the protection of your...friends.”

Blake, Ruby, and Jaune all leveled stares at him. Friends? Not slaves, not servants but friends. And this coming from a man who was among the finest and highly revered of the Tartar soldiery, a society of warriors who commonly viewed outsiders below themselves.

“You are a kheshig, _noyan_?” Jaune remarked.

“Yes.”

The Frank wormed his arm tight around Ruby's waist. “I see. Thank you, _noyan_...for watching over them.”

Renjidai pressed his fist over his chest and bowed. “It is my duty, _Numan_.”

“It's okay, Jaune,” Ruby assured him. She dropped her voice low. “He's been training us how to fight.”

He stiffened. “What?”

Before she could explain further, Blake hastened over and enveloped herself around him. She squeezed her arms around his chest and pressed her cheeks into his shoulder. “I'm glad your back.”

Jaune was stunned. Both from the sudden embrace—this was Blake, after all—and the news that this elite Mongol warrior smirking in front of him was training his two girls in the martial arts. What happened when he was away? “B-blake? Wh-what's going on?”

“Let's talk about this inside,” she whispered into his ear. “Please.”

He glanced to Ruby who now found it difficult to meet him in the eye.

“Jaune, please,” Blake pleaded. “Inside...”

“Okay, okay.” The Frank reciprocated the embrace. “I missed you, too, Blake.”

He heard Yuse whinny and saw Ruby running her hand on the horse's mane. “Hello, Yusehol. Missed me, haven't you? Because I missed you too, you naughty steed. I hope you didn't give Jaune too much trouble.”

Renjidai paced beside him, his attention directed to the congregation in the market square where many of the troops were quartering horse loads of pilfered goods. “You will not participate in the distribution of loot, _Numan_?”

“I only have what I need, _noyan_ ,” Jaune deflected. “I did not take any that I have no use for.”

“May I see what you have taken that you have use for?”

Ruby and Blake traced the kheshig's gesture. There was a clear lump on the back of his saddle: loot.

Jaune sucked in a deep breath before seizing reins from Ruby, taking her arm and Blake's, and pulling along with him. He ignored their gasps and soldiered past Renjidai. “I'll show you inside.”

“ _Numan_ ,” barked the kheshig. “Where is Dur'qatai Noyan?”

The Frank ignored him until he pushed through the door to the small yurt that had been his home. Nothing much had changed save for another quiver of arrows in the corner that he was sure did not belong to him or anyone else.

* * *

Ruby darted around in the small space of his tent. Like a wild leopard sprinting in circles within a cage, she retrieved and replaced various things, hanging up what little possessions they had on the netting hanging from the beams and neatly segregating the baubles that he barely recalled ever getting. Impressively, she started up the fire by herself and quickly set a pot of stew boiling over it.

“Really into it, huh,” Jaune remarked, impressed with how clean his hovel was since he last left it.

“I learn from the best,” Ruby chirped.

The Frank smirked. “Wow. Blake got you to shape up.”

The Lombard let out a strangled laugh.

“Blake?”

Ruby shoved him an empty bowl and motioned for him to sit in front of the fire. Almost the same spot where he usually sat. “Lunch will be ready soon!”

“Uh-huh. What's your specialty?”

“Horse stew? But don't tell Yuse that.”

“Sure.” Jaune sat with his legs crossed before the fire. Across from him, Blake shuffled awkwardly across from him. “Blake? Are you—”

“Here you go!” Ruby chirped, pouring his a generous portion of boiling stew. “It's still hot so wait a bit.”

He had barely taken a sip and the Magyar had already distributed even servings between the four of them. Four. Him, Ruby, Blake. And Renjidai the kheshig who had been standing in the doorway watching them with the sharp eye of a grinning hawk.

“Thank you for the meal, _Tseglata'ani_ ,” the Mongol guardsman said, accepting his share.

“' _Tseglata'ani_?'” worded the unnerved Frank.

“A fitting name for a diligent girl,” Renjidai said, squeezing next to him. “ _Numan_ , I believe we have much to discuss.”

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Jaune said over his half-empty bowl. “Renjidai _Noyan_ offered to train you in the martial arts with nothing in exchange.”

The girls nodded. Renjidai remained seated across from him, silent and stoic for the most part. The way he had been regarding the Frank was unsettling. Deep piercing eyes, calculating stare, and the fact that his saber sat neatly over his lap with the pommel a bare inch from his free hand.

“Did anyone...catch you or...does anyone else know?”

Ruby shook her head. “No. At least, I hope not.”

Jaune eyed her incredulously. “You hope not?”

“We haven't been in trouble because of it,” Blake reworded.

“Not yet,” the Frank corrected.

“I can shoot a bow!” Ruby blurted out. “Blake can, too. She's better at it.”

Jaune sighed. “I can't say I'm not happy with what you've been doing but...I can say that I'm grateful.” He warily regarded the kheshig. “For all this, thank you, Renjidai _noyan_.”

“No need to thank me, _Numan_. I simply did what I considered...helpful in this situation.”

“So, Jaune,” Ruby prodded, “what did you do out there?”

Lord above, here comes the inquisition. Could he lie to her? Could he lie to Blake as well? Have they not heard of their exploits from the heralds that were sent ahead or were they as aloof as some? Regardless, he had to answer. “Ah, um, we went places...and gathered supplies.”

“You raided,” Blake intoned.

Jaune sucked in a deep breath. He hoped they would not hate him for this. “Yes. Yes, we raided.”

Ruby's voice cut through his skin. “Did you...did you kill?”

He bit his lip. “I didn't see if I did.”

“Were there battles?”

Small, sparse engagements save for the one bloody day where a whole village had been erased from the map. “Nothing big. Only a few...encounters. That we won.”

“And what happened to those who lost?”

The Frank exhaled into his hands. “You know what happens.”

“Did you at least give mercy?” Blake asked.

Jaune looked up to see the Lombard staring him down. He noticed how stiff she was; she had balled her fists over her lap. “I didn't take part in it.”

“Take part in what? The raids?”

“I fought when I fought,” he growled. “But I did not quarter them into the heart of the village to be slaughtered like prey in some wild hunt.”

“Is that what they did?” Ruby squeaked. “They...they rounded the people in the middle of the town and...and...”

“It is the way of our warriors,” Renjidai intoned neutrally. “Such is the way of war as is the way of the hunt. There is often no distinction.”

The three were silent.

“You were resilient,” Blake muttered. “Steadfast. You didn't let yourself become one of them.” The Lombard curled her lips with sad eyes relieved. “It shows that you're better.”

Jaune breathed easy. “Thank you, Blake.”

“Well said, _Tseglarlun_ ,” noted the kheshig. “However, I hope you do not mind me sating my curiosity. _Numan_ , where is Dur'qatai _Noyan_?”

Blake and Ruby craned their heads to their master and friend sitting tight and wordless.

Renjidai's voice resonated deeper and more sternly. “ _Numan_ , where is Dur'qatai _Noyan_?”

“He fell in battle,” Jaune lied.

And when he glanced back up from his half-empty bowl, he could see that everyone in the tent knew how far from the truth that was.

Cackling flames.

“Dur'qatai _Noyan_ ,” breathed Ruby, “is dead?”

He nodded stiffly.

“How,” croaked Blake, “how did he die?”

“I wasn't there,” the Frank continued, finding it the lie easier by the word. “I was hit in the head hard and the next thing I know, he was...dead. Killed in the skirmish.”

“Ah, a skirmish,” echoed Renjidai. “How did that go, by the way?”

Dear Lord above, this kheshig was going to destroy everything! Alas, Jaune had backed himself into a corner and had no other choice but to continue the illusion. Besides, his master's remains had already been taken care of. Any evidence that would turn up after that could be argued on the grounds of being false and borne of circumstance.

“We were coming back from Strigonium—”

“Strigonium!?” harped the Magyar girl.

The Lombard grabbed her. “Ruby! Let him talk.”

“But, Jaune,” Ruby stammered, “You were at Strigonium? You reached the city?”

Jaune shook his head. “No, no. We didn't go there. We just...saw it. With our own eyes. It's still...it's still under the control of King Bela. We were only scouting the area.”

“So you...made it all the way there. You're getting closer to the heartlands. You're getting closer...”

“Such is the reality of this world, _Tseglata'ani_ ,” interjected Renjidai. “ _Numan_ , please continue.”

The Frank sighed. “We rode into a bog on the way back to the rest of the army when we were intercepted by a Hungarian war band. It was a small party but we were also small in number so it was a hard fight. We were also in the middle of a swamp so it was difficult to maneuver as well.”

“Yes, I have heard of a similar encounter from one of our messengers,” the kheshig mused. “Please, go on.”

“I was pulled from my horse. We ended up fighting on foot and I was hit in the head. I don't remember much after that. I only remember coming to and seeing Dur'qatai _Noyan_ dead in the water.”

Embers cackling.

Renjidai leaned slightly and stroked his beard. For a moment, he stared into the tiny flames eating up the charcoal in the fire pit. “... Tell me, _Numan_. Who were you fighting at the time?”

“Hungarian horsemen.”

“What kind of horsemen?”

Jaune breathed deep. “Knights. There were a few knights among them.”

“How many?”

“I don't know,” insisted the Frank. And while he could be lying, he never truly knew if Cardin and that Ozma fellow were the only knights in that war band. Besides, the other riders could have also been knights. Granted, they could have been lesser knights but knights nonetheless.

“There were two knights who were captured recently,” blurted Ruby.

Jaune stared at her. No. It couldn't be. There were countless knights in this kingdom. “Really now.”

“Yes,” Renjidai said. “A 'Tem-palar' and a 'Hosse-pital-yer' if I recall correctly.”

And at that moment, the Frank felt the blood drain from his body. Cardin was a Hospitaller while Ozma had the colors of a Templar. Other than Ren and Qrow, those two were the only other witnesses to what really transpired in the bog. This had to be a massive coincidence; Cardin and Ozma could not be possibly be in this very camp right now!

Could they?

“Two papal knights?” echoed Jaune.

“ _Igen_ ,” Ruby said. “We saw them. They were paraded through the camp, in chains like us when we were first brought in. They were probably sold off to someone by now because we have never seen them since.”

“When was this?” he demanded.

“A few days ago,” Blake answered. Nervously.

“What—” The Frank paused. Choose the words carefully. “Who...were they Hungarian?”

“I don't know,” Ruby replied. “I tried to talk to them. They understood me...I think.”

“We can't be sure,” Blake corrected. “Ruby called out to them and they heard her but we can't be sure if they understood her or were simply startled.”

“Right. Okay. Um, I see.”

“Is there something about them, _Numan_?” Renjidai pressed.

Jaune swallowed the lump in his throat upon seeing how close the kheshig's hand was to the hilt of the sword on his lap. Was this man onto him? “Only curious.”

“As am I. We often do not return with captured knights.”

“Then I guess you have been fortunate,” he deflected. “You should know more about them as I have only returned from the west.”

The kheshig nodded. “You are right. I was only being curious.”

“I hope I have sated your curiosity.”

A quick, chilling smile flashed back at him. “You have. For now.”

Outside, Yuse whinnied. Jaune set his empty bowl down and stood up. “If you'll excuse me, I have to unpack a few things.”

“Loot?” Blake queried.

“Yes. Loot.”

And a bag that he had left unopened out of respect for her. If there was to be any consolation for all the effort it took to get it, it better be some answers as to what was in it. In the back of his mind, he hoped that Blake would give him that at least. Besides, he too was curious.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 11, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: January 5, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 5, 2020**

* * *

******Translations:**

**_H_ _á_ _ll_ _á_ _Istenn_ _é_ _k_ = Thank God [Hungarian]**

**_A-ge_ = Sir (nobility) [Mongolian]**

**_Igen_ = Yes [Hungarian]**


	14. Legacy

Jaune was outside his tent unpacking his belongings from under his saddle when he noticed Ren and Qrow approaching. Unchanged out of their scaled jerkins, the three of them did not seem apart from the rest of the men milling about in the entire camp—or 'tent city' as it most likely appeared when they rode in earlier that day.

"Hail!" he greeted.

"Hail," Ren reciprocated.

Qrow snorted. "So this is where you sleep, huh."

"Not impressive, I know," Jaune grunted, heaving out the last of his loot: Blake's unopened bag.

"Where are your slave girls?"

Ren frowned. "Qrow."

"They're inside." The Frank stopped short of pushing through the door. "Um, I don't mean to come off as rude but I think it would be better if we meet again later—"

"Jaune, it's fine," Ren said. "We understand your concerns. We were getting a lay of the land and were informed that your hut was nearby. No harm in seeing to your health?"

"None at all. Well, I appreciate your presence. I really do. It's just that...I'm sorry if I'm having to keep this from you."

Qrow raised a brow while his mouthed curled to match a malcontented wolf. "A bit unfair, don't you think? I mean, I've been shared my scandalous escapades to you and you still won't let me have a peek at what you've got hidden in there? I promise I won't bite."

"Qrow, please. I can't—"

The rest of the words died in Jaune's mouth the moment he heard the door creak open behind him. He whirled on his heels to see Ruby standing in the doorway, stiff as a board and silver eyes growing suddenly wide.

"Ruby!" Jaune hissed. "Get back inside now!"

She glanced at him with that hollow face. Then back at the other two men.

"Ruby, I said get back inside!"

"Ruby?" echoed a suddenly solemn Qrow Branwen. " _Pir_ _ó_ _sz_?"

" _Varj_ _ú_ _B_ _á_ _csi_?" Ruby said, stepping out into the daylight.

Jaune glanced to Ren who was as stupefied as he was. Qrow took wide steps towards him while Ruby pushed passed the threshold of his tent. Suddenly, he was witnessing the teary young girl gawking up at the man who he considered to be one of the most calloused slave-soldiers in the Mongol army.

" _Pir_ _ó_ _sz_... Ruby. It's...it's you."

" _Varj_ _ú_ _B_ _á_ _csi_ ," she sniffled. "Uncle Qrow!"

The two embraced.

"Small world, eh?" Renjidai echoed.

Jaune, still at a loss for words, turned on his heel at the kheshig leaning against the doorframe. The man bore the same face that Ruby did—one of recognition. He followed his eyes to Ren who appeared to have been struck dumb by his mere presence.

"Yes, it is indeed a small world," responded the young darga with a curt nod and a growing smile. "Father."

Father? The Frank snapped his head around. Ruby Rose and Qrow Branwen, niece and uncle. Renjidai Noyan and Renkhai Darga, father and son. Oh.

Between them, Jaune found himself resting his wary eyes at Blake milling under the shade of his tent. She regarded him, then the bag with the long black ribbon hanging from his grip.

"Blake?"

Blake's lip quivered slightly. "You...have it."

Jaune shrugged, hefting up the ragged sackcloth bag. "Yeah. I do."

She reached out and took his wrist. Her fingers wriggled down to the ribbon. A tear-streaked cheek returned to him. "How?"

"You don't want to know," he muttered under his breath, shuffling back inside. He never let go of the bag, though, so Blake was dragged in with him, leaving behind Ruby to tearfully catch up with her uncle as Ren and his father silently observed the Frank regard the Lombard with a very stern look.

* * *

"What's inside?"

"Pardon?"

Jaune did not spare Blake the venom in his voice. "Don't make me open this before you would."

The Lombard reached over but he held it away as he lightly shoved her back. "I went through enough trouble to do this for you. At least tell me why I had to."

Blake bit her lip. "You didn't have to."

She was right. Yet, Jaune was too angry to relent. He wanted to argue. If not to prove a point, then to prove to her that she was hurting him by hiding secrets too big for Subetei Ba'atar to ignore. In the name of God, he killed his own master over something he had not even seen yet. "I wanted to see you smile more. So I did this. Now tell me if it's worth it."

She found it hard to look him in the eye. "You could have found out on your way back here."

"I didn't. I couldn't. I would rather you show me yourself than I behave like a thief and harm both of us."

They regarded each other for a moment. Then their surroundings. They were alone in the tent. Ruby's voice echoed from the outside, excitedly regaling her company with what she had been through: Jaune's kindness, Blake's patience, and Renjidai's generosity. Strangely, the kheshig did not even bother to peek inside. Perhaps he too was as relieved to see his son again after a long time. The two served different commanders in different, faraway places for months after all.

"I..." Blake stammered.

Jaune eyed her. "Fine. If you wish to keep more secrets from me, then don't expect me to reveal any more to you."

"Wait!" She pulled him back down to sit by the ash-strewn fire pit. "Wait. Please, I...I trust you."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Jaune tugged at the knot. The ribbon loosened. "What is this?"

Blake sighed and dug her hands in. What she pulled out was not the kind of treasure a part of him dreamt of. It appeared to be made of gold, that was for certain. She rubbed it clean of any grime before showing it. "My family crest. Here on this signet ring. I think you know what it is."

She set it on her lap while she unveiled the next: an ornate curved dagger sheathed in a more ornate scabbard. Both were lined with gold and ringed with finely cut gemstones. The blade, surprisingly, was sharp. Yet, the shape was itself...Saracen.

"My grandfather's blade," the Lombard explained. "He took up the Cross with Prince Bohemond and claimed this from an infidel commander in the Holy Land. It's...as much revered as our crest. You could say...family pride...our legacy was born in the Holy Land and this is proof."

Jaune took in the magnificent heirlooms. An embedded sigil mimicking the likeness of a belladonna flower and an Oriental edge crafted by the enemies of the Church and rechristened with Lombard wealth.

The final prize she withdrew from her bag was a tome. A weathered tome bound so thickly that it could have been easily mistaken for a chronicle written by a monk. Blake opened it and leafed through the pages, the book showing its age and the harm brought on by swamp water.

"It's...wet?" she noted.

"It fell in the bog," Jaune admitted.

"Oh. I can still read it, which is good."

"What is it?"

" _Gesta Belladonnum_."

Jaune leaned back. Now he knew. Blake carried her entire family history in that bag. The signet ring as a show of power, the dagger to enforce that power, and the book to prove her power. But why? Why did she risk such prized expressions of authority? Why did she bring these all with her out here? If she was captured by the Tartars, that meant that either she had wandered too close to their territory or the Tartars were raiding closer and closer to Lombardy.

"Why," he mouthed.

"What?"

"Why do you have these with you?"

"It's...I..."

"Blake, what were you doing?" he half-demanded, half-pleaded. "Why did you come all the way here from Lombardy to begin with!?"

The Lombard shrunk under his shadow, unable to meet him in the eye again. "I was trying to help..."

"Help with what? King Bela? Fund that hypocrite's army with your family's wealth!?"

"No! Wait, yes but not...not what you think!"

Jaune sighed. He picked at the ashes in the pit. "What then?"

Blake stared at the ashes with him. Her fists curled over the Belladonna family heirlooms resting on her lap. "Have you...have you heard of Emperor Frederick's war with the Lombards?"

"Some of it, yes."

"I...was trying to help my family...the League. I was trying to help the League resist the Emperor's forces."

"How?"

"We tried fighting them in the field. They kept pushing. Then luring them into the forests and the mountains where they were vulnerable. They kept on pushing. Then diplomacy. Nothing seemed to work. So we...we elected to travel east...to request for aid."

"From who?"

"Anyone who would sympathize with us."

The Frank exhaled. He drew up the black ribbon and began twirling it around and over his fingers, undoing the knots and retying them. "You went to King Bela to request for aid."

"... Y-yes."

"You didn't expect the Tartars."

"... No."

"And you were caught by them."

"When we crossed the Ister... We were separated and I was taken."

"What about those you were with?"

"I don't know," Blake replied somberly. "I worry about them to this day. I still blame myself for what could have happened to them. They could be dead or enslaved or returned west, I don't know..."

Jaune stretched the ribbon and held it over the heirlooms. "Here. Tie these up and hide them."

She gawked at him a moment before catching on. The crest, dagger, and book were quickly bound up and placed in a wicker basket that they both hid among the baskets that held chunks of salted meats and tanned hides.

"Ruby should know," the Frank said. "You trust me. You should trust her too."

"I do. I'll tell her later."

"Or you can tell her now," Qrow echoed from the doorway. Ruby hung off his arm. "Got some secrets to share, Jaune?"

"Uncle Qrow, please," Ruby interjected. "He's been kind to me! Don't hurt him, please."

Qrow laughed as he closed, and locked, the door. "Only jesting, _Pirosz._ "

"Where's Ren?" Jaune asked.

"Father and son time," the older Magyar replied. "Now what is it you were going to tell my niece here?"

"Tell her what?"

"Tell me what?"

Qrow smirked. A smirk that was too unsettling to be soothing or in jest. "What about you, Lombard girl? What's your name again?"

Ruby frowned. " _K_ _é_ _rlek_ , _ne l_ _é_ _gy durva_ , _Varj_ _ú_ _B_ _á_ _csi_."

"Blake. My name is Blake Belladonna."

The older Magyar flashed his teeth. "Belladonna, eh?"

Jaune knew Qrow long enough to see what was really behind that sudden mien. That and he started stroking the stubble on his chin. The glint in his blood-red eyes as he regarded Blake while he kept a strong grip on Ruby's wrist. The girls themselves had no idea. One was relieved to see her uncle again, the other was unaware of who truly was the man that had relished in slaughtering Hungarian citizens like condemned lambs.

"Qrow—" Jaune started.

Qrow ignored him and paced around the fire pit. "Indulge me, Blake. You see, I heard about this...family...that had that same name. Belladonna. Big name in the provinces north of Rome. A place where there was...a league of merchant cities, was it? Have you heard of that?"

Jaune took Blake's hand while staring daggers into him. "Qrow."

"Just being curious, Jaune. I heard a lot of things in my time out there so I want to...clarify a few points."

"Uncle Qrow, you're being scary," Ruby mewled, herself unable to be free from his grasp.

The older Magyar chuckled. "I heard a couple tales, you know. A few tales of...rebels who were children of the powerful families in that league. They ran around the mountains and the forests, causing trouble for the Imperial Army. Emperor Frederick was not a happy man during that time."

The Frank could hear the Lombard gulp so he squeezed her hand, hoping to give calm.

"They made the Imperial Army bleed. But then the Imperial Army hit back. And they splintered. And they fled. In all directions. Some back to their fortress homes across Lombardy. Others to the caves where they thought it was a good idea to...cross the Ister and ask for help."

Ruby stopped resisting to stare dumbly at Blake.

Blake, for her part, mustered herself and said, "You know who I am then."

"Can't really say for sure," Qrow admitted. He let go of his niece and helped himself to a vacant spot on the carpeted ground. "I just know that here's a girl who could have ties to one of the most influential families in Europe. For all I know, you could be someone else entirely. But a girl with the name that big? If I know that you're here, then Subetei Ba'atar knows too. He has to. Right, Jaune?"

Jaune held still. Whatever Qrow was getting at, he did not want to acknowledge it.

"And if Subetei Ba'atar knows, then Ren's father knows as well. And that gives me more questions." The older Magyar laid on his side, almost mocking the way a harlot would present herself to an aroused brigand. "Seeing as you...ended up here the same way we all did. How does that happen? Our raids are barely licking the waters off the Ister."

"Blake?" Ruby croaked.

Jaune felt a nudge. He let go when Blake echoed a shaky response. "I made mistakes. A lot of mistakes. It's my fault I'm here in the first place. I was reckless and a fool. Now I'm trying not to be. I'm trying to fix my mistakes."

"And how are you going to do that when you're here?" Qrow threw back. "Far away from home with only the clothes on your back and the food of someone else to live by?"

"What's mine is hers," Jaune barked. He paused to silence his excitement. "She...she is trying to be of help. She has her secrets and she prefers they stay a secret."

"Won't stay that way for long."

"I think we've talked about this enough, Qrow."

Qrow, unpredictable as he was, yawned and laughed. "Very well. _Sz_ _ó_ _val_ , _Pir_ _ó_ _sz_. _Tudsz_ _főzni_?"

Ruby chuckled uneasily and replied in her native tongue, completely engaging her uncle in some lively discussion. Or somewhat lively. It was clear the younger girl was still uncomfortable. All the while, Jaune rubbed circles on Blake's back after he heard her choking back a sob.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 11, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: April 2, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: April 2, 2020**

* * *

**Translations:**

**_Pir_ _ó_ _sz_ = Affectionate name for Ruby [Hungarian]**

**_Varj_ _ú_ _B_ _á_ _csi_ = Uncle Crow [Hungarian]**

**_Gesta Belladonnum_ = Deeds of the Belladonnas [Latin]**

**_K_ _é_ _rlek_ , _ne l_ _é_ _gy durva_ , _Varj_ _ú_ _B_ _á_ _csi_. = Please don't be rude, Uncle Qrow. [Hungarian]**

**_Sz_ _ó_ _val_ , _Pir_ _ó_ _sz_. _Tudsz_ _főzni_? = So, Ruby. Can you cook? [Hungarian]**


	15. Infamy

Qrow did not stay long that afternoon. The Mongols strictly managed their numbers so the grizzled veteran had to report back to his unit to complete the count before sundown.

And so Ruby, Blake, and Jaune were left to their own devices in their collective tent for the first time in weeks. A wave of relief washed over all three—Ruby relaxed from containing her uncle's subtle provocations, Blake breathed easy after exposing much of her heritage, and Jaune ceased to worry about Qrow's incessant inquiries. The skies were still bright blue outside which meant a few hours until the evening. So the Frank decided to share the 'gifts' he had for the two girls of whom he called his own.

The ragged floral dress was the first surprise. Ruby was elated. Blake, on the other hand, tried not to ruin her joy. Jaune could tell the Lombard knew that it was lowly loot stripped from some poor peasant girl. But the Magyar did not need to know that...yet.

“It could use a wash,” she said, holding up the garment.

“I see a tear,” Blake noted. “Not too big. Can be sown easily.”

“Glad you like it,” the Frank remarked a little uneasily. It was difficult seeing Ruby fawn over the dress. Especially now that he kept picturing spatters of dried blood sullying the silk and a headless woman's naked corpse tossed into a pit of burning morts.

He next handed them the silver rings. Again, it felt a little uncomfortable fitting them on their fingers with the thought of Dur'qatai Noyan gleefully chopping off someone's hand just to get these treasures. The ugly blotches of tarnish shown a bright copper color against the light of the candles in his tent. Much like dried blood on the floorboards of...

“Jaune?”

Jaune blinked away his imagination. He sputtered and froze when he realized he was still holding onto Blake's hand, numbly caressing the large silver ring pressed into her finger. Something warm graced his cheeks as he pulled away. He glanced to Ruby for respite only to see her gawking at him with an uneven, if not slightly offended, expression.

“Sorry! _Mea culpa_ , _mea culpa_. I...”

“ _Bene_ , _bene_!” Blake stammered as she fiddled with the ring. She did not take it off; instead, she pressed it further into her hand, brushing the silver, and stealing occasional glances at the Frank. “I...I like it. It's...precious and...meaningful... Ah, _gratias tibi ago_.”

“Uh, that's g-good to know.”

“Wh-what about me?” squeaked young Ruby.

Jaune saw the pleading in her eyes. He drew out the last of the rings and tried them on her. Two were larger than her finger but the third did eventually squeeze in snugly. How fitting that the finely cut stone molded onto the prong glistened a bright red. Could be a ruby.

The Frank sat back to see his two girls casting unsure looks. Not at him, not even at each other. As though the dress or the carpet were far more enrapturing. Yet the way they dawdled over his loot—their loot now—granted him some satisfaction. A bitter satisfaction knowing that they were taken from a raid that was far from what he had envisioned years before as a hopeful young adventurer trekking the vast plains of the Kievan Rus'.

“I don't have much else. Sorry.”

Ruby and Blake burst into a flurry of their own apologies. They were grateful for what he got them. Even though it was not much. Then again, Jaune never really wanted any more than what he had been given. The copper coins were for buying food and supplies. The dress and the rings were... Well, if he lived alone, he would have bartered them in exchange for extra tools or something more practical than another tanned carpet.

Of course, the exception was Saphron's ring—and the memories that came with it—which he made sure to keep hidden away in his pocket.

* * *

Later that night, Jaune remembered how much Ruby would often steel her way next to him, pressing herself to his side. Much like his younger sisters on a cold evening, they would coddle and share warmth until the sun would rise. He realized how much he had missed Ruby's touch—her body against his, her breath on his neck, her hand on his chest.

“May I?”

That was new. He turned his head. Blake stood there, watching down on them with her beddings rolled haphazardly under her arm. When Ruby stole his right, Blake asked for his left.

Jaune did not know what was going on but he was sure of one thing: he would feel warmer and happier. So he pushed up some extra space, disturbing Ruby a little and interpreting her frown as her being vexed that she had been interrupted to soon from some blissful dream. Blake settled slowly beside him. Unlike the Magyar, she kept her hands to herself. Only the skin of her bare shoulder touched his. She kept her gaze up at the flaps, never once meeting his gaze.

It was understandable. Blake was not one for intimacy, as far as he could tell. This was good enough. Close enough.

Just like home. Oh, the fond memories of a time when the worries of the world did not threaten his life or the lives of those around dear to him. A part of him drifted back to that oft forgotten land in the dark corners of his mind where the blissful past that had been his childhood was locked away. How were his parents? How were his sisters? How were his old friends? Are they even still alive?

He heard breathing and felt warm air on his shoulder. Ruby was drooling. Blake had finally shut her eyes.

“Goodnight, you two,” he bade with a wide smile.

Jaune fell asleep easier than the last few weeks he was out with the Mongols.

* * *

When Renjidai returned the following morning with nine other kheshigs, the Frank knew something terrible was awaiting him. The man who trained his dearest friends had his face set in stone as he forced open the door to his tent. There was no explanation, neither leniency nor an ear lent to their pleas. The kheshigs seized Jaune. Then Blake. And even Ruby.

“What's going on!?”

“Let me go!”

“Stop! Please!”

They were bound quickly and paraded through the camp towards the market grounds where a crowd had gathered to witness the day's entertainment. Jaune, no stranger to derision, bore the brunt of the insults thrown his way. What hurt him, though, were the tears that streaked down Ruby's cheeks despite the girl never understanding a single word of the Mongol insults being heaped upon them.

They were dragged towards the place where the Frank first saw the Magyar girl on display. On the very spot where she had been put on display sat a block of wood, a large timber stump with a flattened plateau that had seen more scars from an axe than a crusader returning from the Holy Land. Jaune already knew what it was without even seeing the box behind it.

Then he saw them. His heart sank.

Subetei Ba'atar stood on the wooden stage, clad in a glorious brigandine that outshone those worn by his retinue of unnamed kheshigs. In their throes stood Qrow and Ren, both unsmiling, both masking their emotions with steel as they regarded him in the same way they saw trash to be burned in a pit.

“ _Varjú Bácsi_!” Ruby cried out. “ _Varjú Bácsi_! _Segíts_! _Segítseg_!”

Qrow did not budge. He stared at her, nary lifting a finger nor saying a word.

“ _V-varjú Bácsi_?”

“Ruby,” Blake wheezed. “He's not...”

The Magyar broke down. She begged her uncle to do something, to say something. And she wailed when she realized, to her horror, that he was unwilling to lift a finger. And less than a day after their heartwarming reunion. Jaune felt a knife twist in his chest watching Ruby cry. He glanced to Ren who had the audacity to meet him in the eye.

“Ren,” he called. “Why?”

Like Qrow, Ren held his tongue. Only watching him with regretful eyes that betrayed his condescending frown.

The Frank was forced to kneel before the chopping block. Alongside two pale men. Europeans. Hungarians. Former knights who had been stripped of their armor and left to bake under the sun for far too long, their heads bowed in shame. The first dared to raise his head and Jaune felt his heart skip a beat.

“Cardin!?”

“Arc?”

Cardin Winchester, servant of the Order of Saint John, gaped back baffled, bare, and broken. Beside him was the another familiar knight, Sir Ozma of the Templars, his expression betraying no fear. Rather, the latter was resigned to his fate; Sir Ozma was ready to become a martyr for the faith.

“Hello, _Numan_ ,” Subetei greeted.

A hand tugged on a tuft of his hair and pulled, jerking Jaune's head up to face the Mongol marshal before he could utter a response.

“You have been accused of murder committed against your fellow soldier,” the marshal declared. “The blood of Dur'qatai Noyan is on your hands. What have you say on this?”

Jaune opened his mouth to speak only to feel dry air whip against his tongue. He coughed and felt dirt come down his throat. He had been thrown to the ground with a boot to his back; he coughed against the soil until he could feel his own voice come through.

“Jaune!” Ruby whimpered. A Mongol soldier slapped her.

“Hey!” Blake yelled only to be slapped herself.

The Frank gargled out a weak roar, if only to stop them from harassing his girls. Instead of a jab, a slap, or a kick in the gut, Subetei's kheshigs pulled on his head and made him watch as Ruby and Blake were yanked by their hair and forced to drop on their knees before him, across from Cardin and Sir Ozma. One of the guardsmen then drew his saber and held it against the nape of Blake's neck.

“What say you, _Numan_?” Subetei repeated.

Jaune was panicking. His heart raced and his mind tormented him with memories of friends he had met who fell to the cruel Mongol blade because of his weaknesses. He bit back his own tears while glancing away to hide them.

“I...don't know what you're talking about, _ba'atar_ ,” he lied.

Subetei smiled. Almost amused that the Frank tried to protest his innocence despite knowing the truth. There was no denying the fact that the marshal knew. He knew because the truth had to have been forced out of Cardin and Ozma in the many ways Jaune refused to think about right now.

“ _Numan_. Why do you still insist in your lies?”

The Frank eyed the chopping block. Specs of dried blood caked the corners. Blood that reminded him of a crucial factor in Yassa law and Mongol custom. With what little confidence he could muster, he raised his voice. “You can't harm me! I am of noble birth!”

The marshal raised his brow. “Oh? Interesting.”

“House D'Arc!” Jaune stopped there. He did not want to name any more names unless he had to. Subetei could see as far as Aragon for all he knew and he did not want to risk his family or their friends unless pressed for more proof. He could, however, invoke privileges he once had. “I have the blessing of the Teutonic Order! I have served and dined with those men!”

Subetei raised his brow with a sideways glance at Ruby. “ _Tsegla'atani_?”

“Ruby...is of noble birth,” the Frank spat, hoping that Ruby's family was still relevant in what was left of Hungary. “House Rose. Court of King Bela.”

In the crowd, Qrow failed to hide a brief smirk. That meant House Rose still held sway in some regard.

“Blake is of noble birth,” Jaune continued. “House Belladonna. Lombardy.”

“Far claims, _Numan_. What is your evidence?”

“Ask your lackeys.” The Frank bitterly turned his head to Qrow and Ren, their stern faces wavering under Subetei's inquisitive glance. “They should know. Especially _Ú_ _r_ Branwen.”

The marshal snickered. He issued a command and the guard withdrew his sword from Blake's neck, thankfully leaving only a red line below her chin. No blood had been drawn. Yet.

Jaune breathed a sigh of relief. These Mongols had customs that played to his advantage. Among them was the law that forbade the spilling of noble blood, even that of the enemy. Then again, that did not stop them from coming up with creative ways to inflict pain, suffering, and even death to their captives without so much as drawing a single cut. He could never forget the account of the Novgorodian princes who were captured by the Tartars. Their status of nobility proved a blessing and a curse. The nobles were denied a beheading; instead, they were condemned to lay under the floors while their overlords danced and debauched above them until morning.

The Frank began mouthing a prayer, hoping that the Lord would listen.

Subetei then barked the Tartar names of Qrow and Ren. The two flinched for a bare moment before they marched into the yard with nary any sympathy nor anger for the accused and the condemned. There was a string of punctuated words in that Mongol tongue. The two slave-warriors nodded and carried the chopping block away. They returned with a large pail filled to the brim with water. The kheshigs surrendered Jaune to the two men who he thought he could trust with his life.

Qrow Branwen grabbed his right while Ren Lie held his left. Suddenly, the Frank was drowning in a bucket.

Trash, kick, thrash, breathe.

Air!

“Now, _Numan_ ,” Subetei echoed.

Jaune loudly coughed and wheezed, drawing in gulps of air while heaving gulps of water.

“How did Dur'qatai Noyan die?”

“Answer him, Jaune,” Ren muttered (begged) in one ear. “And this will be over.”

“Be smart, kid,” Qrow hissed (pleaded) in the other.

The Frank was given a moment to compose himself. Behind him, he could hear Ruby mewling behind someone's mouth, no doubt having screamed for all she was worth when his head was shoved under. In front of him, Cardin—for the first time since his childhood—was horrified for his sake. Sir Ozma, on the other hand, appeared intrigued more than concerned.

Finally, Jaune was able to speak. “H-he...he drowned...”

Subetei tilted his head. “Oh? I thought he was felled in battle. Are you arguing against the claims made by your comrades that their leader was struck down by a Hungarian blade? An account that...has come from you?”

“Not just me...”

Qrow's grip tightened over his shoulder and a nod from the marshal led to another drowning.

When he was pulled back out again, he noticed how the older Magyar had hardened his glare...towards the marshal. He found out why when he was set aside and forced to watch helplessly as Ruby was pulled by her hair to take his place.

“No, no!” he hoarsely begged.

“No! Please!” Blake shrieked. “Take me instead! Take _me_!”

Subetei's stern order thundered over her cries. Almost immediately, Ruby was taken by the tuft of her hair and shoved into the pail. She writhed, thrashed, and her legs kicked while her body jerked to and fro. By the time she had been pulled back out, Jaune nearly lost his voice from screaming.

“ _Numan_ ,” the marshal intoned. “Do not test my patience. What is the truth behind the loss of one of my men?”

“Answer him and end this,” angrily whispered Qrow.

The Frank, who felt his own tears streaming down his cheeks, looked up to the leader of these invaders from Tartary. “I...I drowned him...in a swamp...during an encounter...”

Subetei smiled. “Very good, _Numan_. You see? Honesty is all I ask. How was it so difficult?”

A master of deception invoking the name of honesty? What a slap in the face that was.

“Jaune,” Cardin breathed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean...I didn't think they would...do this...”

The Frank slowly turned to his long-time rival. He wanted to snap at him. Even in the arms of their enemies, this big brute had the audacity to torment him so with honeyed words and false mercy. Where was this kind of a man when he was in Masovia, struggling to earn his keep within the Teutonic Order? Alas, he was too busy being angry at himself, at Subetei, at Qrow and Ren for their betrayal.

Too angry to notice that the last two had let go of him.

“Jaune of House D'Arc?” echoed Sir Ozma the Templar.

“What?” he managed to hiss.

“Keep your head down.”

That was when he heard it. The sound of blades scraping out of their scabbards. The jeers of the crowd suddenly turned into mortifying screeches. What followed were pained grunts amid a chorus of garbled battlecries. A body—a Mongol soldier with a wide gash over his chest—collapsed in front of him. Already, the worst came to mind.

Jaune struggled against his binds only to be pushed down by someone.

“Watch your head!” barked Sir Ozma, who had somehow collided into him, knocking them both onto the ground in time to miss a club meant for their skulls.

The two of them rolled in the dirt until they bumped against the boots of Renkhai Darga, who was now panting and holding back a slew of Mongol warriors inching towards him with their spears. Across the yard, Qrow Branwen had taken down three kheshigs and was now clashing blades with none other than Renjidai himself. Both were engaged in a dance of steel with neither showing signs of giving in.

“Jaune!”

That was Ruby! Where was she!?

“Jaune, help!”

Blake! She was nearby!

“They haven't beaten your legs yet,” panted the Templar. “Go save them while you still can!”

“But you're—”

Sir Ozma shoved him forward with his shoulder. “Go! _Deus tecum_!”

God be with him. To think this man was prepared to meet the Lord moments ago. Jaune forced himself to stand and, ignoring much of his surroundings, hobbled through the dust storm towards the girls. Ruby was screaming. Blake was yelling. Renkhai Darga raised his voice louder than he had ever heard while Qrow Branwen growled a long string of Hungarian curses. There was so much movement, so much noise. The sun was blaring down bright on him, glinting off a saber so brightly that he looked away.

“Arc!” Cardin bellowed. “Watch out!”

Jaune responded a heartbeat late. A sudden sting threw him to the ground. This time, through the haze, he could see the shaft of an arrow sticking out from below his clavicle.

Hands grabbed him and began pulling. “Stay with me, you dumb Frank!”

Winchester? Was this brute of a Hospitaller actually carrying him from battle? How did he get lose from his binds!?

“Ruby, Blake,” Jaune mouthed.

“Your girls are safe,” reported Sir Ozma who had suddenly reappeared with his hands unbound and a claymore expertly wielded and dripping with blood. A limp broke his stance. “This way!”

Despite Cardin's commands, the Frank found it harder and harder to focus. There was a numbness creeping up his wrists and his legs. Black spots in the corners of his vision, the world strangely turning when it shouldn't. He tried to keep up the pace, pushing through the Mongol camp, thrown into disarray, towards...somewhere...

Neighing.

Horses?

Jaune lost track of time. Between moments of clarity and the clouds of darkness overcoming his senses, he could pick out heated discussions between Cardin and Sir Ozma. The two of them threw on the saddles to a pair of protesting horses. These were followed by two more voices: Ren and Qrow. More yelling. Louder. Angry shouts. Silenced in the climax by a feminine command.

Blake.

Blake continued to bark something so sharply, it made him wince. All the while, Ruby threw her hands around him: on his face, on the arrow sticking from his chest, on the ropes holding his hands taught. They were cut loose, leaving him to nearly collapse on top of the diminutive girl. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

“He's succumbing to the poison,” Sir Ozma said. “Put him over the saddle. Here, now!”

The Frank was lifted off his feet and haphazardly draped over something soft yet hard at the same time. The smell of tanned leather and manure assaulted his nostrils. By then, he had lost control of his limbs.

“It's okay, Yuse,” Ruby cooed distantly. “It's me, it's us...”

“Do we need to get our belongings?” Blake raised.

“No time!” Ren argued. “We have to go now!”

“Your friend's life depends on you, now, young lady,” the Templar echoed.

“Ride, horse, ride!” someone hollered.

Everything else faded into obscurity. Jaune saw the blood, then dirt, then grass before his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 11, 2019**

**LAST EDITED: April 22, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: April 22, 2020**

* * *

******Translations:**

_**Mea culpa** _ **,** **_mea culpa_. = I'm sorry, I'm sorry. [Latin]**

_**Bene** _ **,** **_bene_! = It's fine, it's fine! [Latin]**

_**Gratis tibi ago** _ **. = Thank you. [Latin]**

_**Segíts** _ **!** **_Segítseg_! = Help me! Help! [Hungarian]**

_**Deus tecum** _ **! = God is with you!/God be with you! [Latin]**


	16. Forgiveness

When Jaune came to, it was under two fur blankets on a bed of hay. A fire cackled close by, sharing its warmth and lighting up the room he was in. Lord above, how long had it been since he last slept in a hovel made of stone and timber? He opened his mouth only to cough from the dryness in his tongue.

"Jaune? Jaune! You're awake!"

Ruby?

He turned his head and there she was, leaping off her chair on the other side of the room. That puffy face with the gleaming silver eyes. Cheeks moist and short, unkempt hair lining her shoulders with strands that were turning red. She beamed down on him. Crying. Why was she crying? What happened? And was that the floral dress that he got...for...her...

"You're awake, you're alive," she sobbed. " _H_ _á_ _ll_ _á_ _Istenn_ _é_ _k_ , you're alive!"

"Ruby?" he croaked.

A second shape emerged from the doorway. This one with long charcoal hair and piercing amber cores shining against the campfire.

"Blake!" Ruby called excitedly. "He's awake!"

Blake? She's here, too. That's great! He almost wondered where she had gone off to, leaving Ruby alone while he was...what was he doing again? And why does his shoulder hurt?

"Hey, lay down," the Lombard said. "You're still recovering."

Recovering?

His body answered with a pang of pain stinging under his calf. Jaune winced and laid back down. He was bare above the waist where he could see layers of dried wrappings over his chest. And it struck him: he had been shot below the clavicle with an arrow.

"The poison should have left your body by now," Blake said.

Poison? He was poisoned?

"How are you feeling?"

Confused, worried, and much less relieved. Where were they, anyway? "Could be better..."

Footsteps. Rustling. A grunt from a figure that had emerged under the doorway.

Jaune, Ruby, and Blake regarded Qrow Branwen leaning against the doorframe, having forgone his Mongol jerkin yet still sporting his sword on his hip and a quiver filled with arrows. He set down his bow before rummaging through one of the rucksacks under the corner table. He came off with an apple that he bit gracelessly while eyeing the three of them with nary a care.

Ruby turned away almost immediately, instead showing Jaune the glare she had been leveling at her uncle.

"Morning, Jaune," Qrow greeted while chewing.

" _Putain de connard_ ," the Frank hissed.

The older Magyar shrugged. "Figured as much."

"Should I be owed an explanation?" Jaune seethed.

"Do you want to believe what I'm going to say?"

"Spare me the horse dung, then."

A shrug. "Fair enough."

Then Qrow left. It felt as though nothing could insult the man. When his shadow vanished past the corner, Blake let out a sigh over Ruby's angry mumbles. By the sounds of it, she was as furious at her uncle as he was. Yet what exactly happened since...

Jaune remembered now the moments before the Mongol camp went up in arms. He believed without a doubt that they were to be executed. Not a quick death as was custom among the laws of Europe but in the customs dictated by Yassa, the unwritten Tartar law. He paled at the thought of being tortured to death in ways only the Tartars knew. Then, almost as if the Lord Himself touched the ground, Qrow and Ren shed their obligations as Mongol warriors and roused the whole camp.

The Frank recalled struggling across the battlefield until an arrow speared him in the shoulder. Everything after was a haze.

"Do you need something to eat?" asked Blake.

"Yes, please."

"I'll be back then."

"Yes," Ruby said coolly. "I'll stay here. Jaune could use some catching up."

The Lombard departed them with a weak smile. The Frank turned to the Magyar. She held his hand with both of hers, squeezing tightly and loosing grateful tears that she rubbed against the nape of his neck.

"I'm glad you're well," Ruby said.

"I'm happy we're all still in one piece after...you know."

"Do you need answers?"

A sigh. "Yes, please. Especially from Qrow."

A frown. "You're not the only one."

"So tell me... How...did we get out?"

Ruby eased herself to sit on his bedside before recounting their daring escape from the Mongols.

* * *

The farmhouse they had taken shelter in was quite modest. Built on the marches of the Great Hungarian Plain and abandoned for some time, it had not surrendered completely to Mother Nature. Aside from the moss, vines, and the occasional hole in a place where there should not be any, their little hovel was sturdy enough to protect them from the elements.

When Jaune had come to, it had been the third day since their flight. The last two were spent riding without ceasing, testing the endurance of the vaunted Mongol horse. The Frank could hear the neighing outside; five steeds pilfered from their captors, Yusehol among them.

"Yuse's a very loyal horse," Ruby prattled.

"I guess he liked me more than his master," Jaune said.

"You treated him right. I'm sure he'd get very excited to see you alive and well."

Light footsteps padded against the wooden floor. Blake returned with a bowl of sliced meat broth and a tankard of water. "It's not much. Slow bites, okay?"

Jaune settled on the edge of his bed for his meal. "I know. Shoulder still hurts but I can manage."

"How long until you can use your tools?"

"My tools?"

"Right here," gestured Blake. Under the table leaned a short Oriental bow, a quiver of arrows, and a curved Saracen blade tucked in a weathered scabbard. Technically not his but close enough to what he had been using in the service of the Tartars.

"I don't know. Hopefully not too soon."

"I see. You don't have to worry about us, though. We can handle ourselves."

The Frank furrowed his brow to express his doubt.

The Lombard pouted. "We're not that bad, Jaune. Please have faith in us. I've used a bow before. And Ruby can defend herself with her dagger."

The Magyar laid out the small Roman blade on the table. It was clearly older than even him though the edge of the blade did not appear dull. It had been one of the many things that the group had managed to pilfer on their way out. Which reminded him...

"Your bag—"

"It's with me." Blake pulled the knapsack out from under his bed. "I almost thought we left it behind but..."

"Renkhai _Darga_ went through the trouble to gather what he could from our tent," Ruby finished stiffly. "He even had to fight back his own father."

"Renjidai _Noyan_ ," Jaune mouthed. He shook his head. "I should've seen that coming. I knew it was going to happen. He was Subetei's personal guard! I should have—"

Blake squeezed his hand. "Jaune, it's okay. Don't blame yourself, please. We're far away from him, from Subetei, from the Tartars. We're safe."

"For now," the Frank retorted. "For sure, they would have sent their riders against us. Are you sure you lost them? This is a wide plain. Not that many places to hide behind."

The two girls eyed each other warily.

"Please tell me there's a plan for all this."

Blake bit her lip. "Sir Ozma wants to us to ride west to one of the Hungarian castles. But the nearest one is too far. The others want to head straight to Strigonium. Much closer, safer. And we hope the King's men are still there. Along with Ruby's family..."

Jaune went silent at that. What if there were spies in Strigonium? What if King Bela had truly abandoned his people? What if there were intercepted on the road there? What if, what if, what if...

"Uncle Qrow," Ruby started only to stop. She glanced away. "He...he's already making preparations with the other one...Renjidai's son...to the ride to Strigonium."

"The four of them argued for hours," the Lombard continued. "And...I think it's been decided that we are going north."

The Frank nodded slowly. "That's...a sound plan."

"Jaune," the Magyar asked. "What did you see when you went to Strigonium?"

"We never got close to the city. We only saw it from a distance with our own eyes. And by the looks of it, it's being fortified. With King Bela's army in shambles, I'm surprised that there are still knights and levies mounting a defense."

"Sir Ozma said that some warriors had taken up the Cross against the Tartars," Blake said. "There were not many of them though. Him and Sir Winchester were among the few that actually arrived to pledge support to King Bela."

"What about the other warriors?" Jaune inquired.

"Fighting elsewhere. At least, that's what they recall before they themselves were captured."

The Frank grunted. Figures. So few help was coming because the main focus of the Church and the nobles were either the Saracens in the Holy Land or in Iberia or the pagan Balts raiding all around Prussia. That meant that they were on their own out here. Their struggle against the Mongols was their own crusade.

Jaune pushed back his empty plate and made to stand. "Where are they?"

Ruby grabbed him to steady his footing. "Who?"

"Your uncle. I need to a have a few words with him."

"Jaune," Blake started. "Let yourself heal."

"I'm not going to fight him, if that's what you're asking. I only want answers."

"Do you want to know what he told me?" the Magyar raised with a bitterness in her voice. She pushed him back down to sit on the bed. "It was all part of a plan, he said. That he and Renkhai _Darga_ had prepared the night that we met. They knew the marshal was going to judge you with Yassa law so they..."

"They tried to deceive the master of deception," completed the Frank.

"I don't know if it worked," Blake added.

"I just want to know why Uncle Qrow—" Ruby bit back a sob. "Why did he have to do that to you? Why did he let those...monsters...do that to me?"

Jaune balled his fists. "I'll be sure to ask him that when I see him."

* * *

He did ask him when he saw him later in the day, coming back from foraging the surrounding plain.

Qrow ignored him at first. Then told him to forget about it. Eventually, the older Magyar responded with visible yet restrained anger. The most that the Frank could get out of the man was a cold rebuttal: some things needed to be done to save others. Sir Ozma stepped in before Jaune entertained the thought of swinging his knuckles.

There was not much else he could get out of Ren either, the (former) darga tending to the horses sheltered in the stables beside the farmhouse. Though remorseful, Ren refused to let slip any more details other than that they had to leave by early morning if they were to reach Strigonium within the week.

That left Jaune fuming by dusk. Spending time venting his frustrations to Yuse while he fed his steed strands of hay at least helped calm his nerves. But he still lingered in bad spirits when the sun sunk behind the horizon. And it had to be Cardin Winchester, his old childhood nemesis, to be the last person to stand at the threshold—and in his way.

"Arc," the Hospitaller started.

" _Oui_?"

"I wish to apologize."

The Frank snorted. "For which transgression?"

"All of them."

Jaune steadied his breathing. "Really now."

Cardin sighed. "I know this is...late in coming. I have come to realize that my behavior in the past was...unacceptable and...harmful to you. And the many others around you as well."

"In more ways than you could have imagined," the Frank muttered.

"As such, I wish to ask for your forgiveness." The Hospitaller extended his hand. "And a renewal of our...acquaintanceship."

Jaune traced the calloused fingers up the worn arm all the way to the bruised face of the big, brute of a boy who had so often humiliated him in front of his peers in Masovia. To think his family left Champagne to avoid cretins like Winchester. Said cretin stood before him, dirty whiskers dirtying his chin, his brutish face soft, and ogre eyes begging for leniency. His hand still lingered in the air. No sign of malice, no hint of deception. Was this really genuine remorse?

The Frank thought over his words as he sorted through his emotions. The past was the past, his mind argued. Dredging up old wounds at a time like this would be foolhardy and detrimental to everyone. Not only to himself but also to Ruby and Blake. Oh, the things he would do for them...

Jaune gripped Cardin's hand all the while he kept an unwavering frown towards him. "It would take me awhile to forgive you...completely."

The Hospitaller nodded. "Then may the Lord deal me my dues."

Many times Jaune had heard how the Cross changed many a devilish man. Perhaps he could give Cardin a chance; this bastard did make it into the Order of Saint John, after all. That meant a lot of sacrifice thrown in with the penitence that would have been demanded of him by the Order. When he let go, Cardin appeared relieved.

"Thank you...Jaune."

"You're welcome...Cardin."

In the silence of the moment, Yuse whinnied as with the rest of the Mongol horses stolen from Subetei's camp.

"So," the Frank choked out solemnly. "Strigonium?"

"It's the safest place we could go to. Unless you have anything to say?"

"I've been told it was already decided."

" _D'accord_. We leave by dawn." Cardin lingered for awhile before waving. "... I understand now your struggles under the pagans."

"It was a difficult choice to choose life over martyrdom," Jaune replied.

"Talk like that would not sit well within the Order."

"Another reason why I left."

The Hospitaller chortled. "Well, we all have free will."

The Frank grunted. "Is it God's will for others not to follow His commands?"

"Honestly, I don't know the answer to that."

"At least you're honest with me."

* * *

Small strips of dried meat and a skin of horse milk.

That was their dinner. Huddled around a small fire burning under the mantle of the farmhouse, the five of them ate their even partitions in silence. Qrow and Ren had seated themselves the furthest, over by the corner, refusing to utter a word while they dined. Ruby and Jaune eased close to the hearth to enjoy the warmth with Blake and the Papal knights conversing in Latin behind them.

Since Ruby had no intention of translating, Jaune was left to guess that it was about Lombardy given how much emotion went into their discourse. The Templar was calm in contrast to the Hospitaller who, more than once, sounded on the edge of an outburst. Of course, Cardin was still the same person in some areas. Interestingly, unlike their more rambunctious years when he would hurl insults and threaten those below him with his fists, he let Blake conclude her points before arguing his own.

It made him wonder. Would he have been a different person if he persevered until he earned the Teutonic cloak? Would he even be here? A mercenary-turned-slave-turned-fugitive on the run from the Tartars, a vicious people who had ravaged both the Christian and Saracen lands. Would he have been there to save Ruby, and even Blake, from a fate worse than death?

Blake raised her voice over something Cardin was saying.

Jaune and Ruby turned their heads towards them to see Sir Ozma declaring that it was time to rest. The Hospitaller departed grumbling, leaving the Lombard to put out the embers of her own anger. The Templar spoke kindly to her—some sort of apology it sounded like—before picking up his bowl and leaving for his own evening prayers.

"You okay?" the Frank asked.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Blake muttered.

"It's fine," Ruby answered morosely. "You said your peace."

"Would it offend you if I asked what it was about?" Jaune prodded.

The Lombard bit her lip. "It's about...home. And how...things should have gone and how...things could have been different if...things had not happened the way they did."

"Ah, never mind that I asked then. Sorry to bother you."

"No, no. It's fine. I just...I guess I needed to have this...conversation. It's been a long time since I left home and...I had to know."

Jaune nodded. He understood. If he had been given the chance to know the recent events in the land where his family dwelled, he would jump at it. Anything to for news of how his loved ones were faring. Even if they could possibly be dead by virtue of plague, poverty, or the pagan Prussians.

* * *

Later that evening, they spread their beddings across the floor. Jaune found himself granted the coveted spot closest to the hearth. He poked at the embers while Ruby nuzzled up close to him. As did Blake. When alone in his tent, the feeling was warm. In the presence of four men, it felt odd.

For a moment, the Frank felt something boring into the back of his head and he almost thought either an arrow would pierce his skull or a blade would suddenly cleave through his neck.

That feeling went away as soon as he heard the vespers.

" _Deus, in adiutorium meum intende_ ," began the Templar Sir Ozma.

" _Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina_ ," continued Cardin. Or rather, Sir Winchester of the Hospital.

" _Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto_ ," chorused Ruby and Blake as per their habit growing up behind strong Christian walls.

That left Jaune to glance idly around with Ren and Qrow, the former confused and the latter indifferent. Lord above, it had been a long time since he even recited any proper Christian prayers. So he sat back and listened, quite remembering some of the ancient words, until Sir Ozma concluded with a loud 'amen.'

"Amen," the Frank echoed.

"Amen," added Qrow.

Heads turned to the drunkard of a warrior staring out at the night sky through the window, pretending to ignore them.

Sir Ozma cleared his throat. "A peaceful rest, everyone."

"Fascinating," Ren remarked.

"Sure," grunted Qrow.

Together, the two of them picked up their bedrolls and headed outside. When asked, Qrow and Ren said something about getting used to the Mongol ways. To Jaune, that meant sleeping with the horses. The two Papal knights did not stop them. After seeing them out the door, they laid their heads beside the threshold, a hand resting over the pommel of their own swords.

Ruby quickly dozed away on his right while Blake silently drifted off on his left. Jaune stared into the dying embers in the hearth until the felt he was the only one awake. Not long after, he was surrounded in darkness with only the stars shining through a hole in the roof.

Jaune choked back a quiet sob. "Father...forgive me..."

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: April 20, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: May 8, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: May 8, 2020**

**NOTE: I'm Protestant.**

* * *

**Translations:**

**_H_ _á_ _ll_ _á_ _Istenn_ _é_ _k_ = Thank God [Hungarian]**

**_Putain de connard_ = French cuss phrase**

**_Oui_? = Yes? [French]**

**_D'accord_. = Okay. [French]**

**_Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto._ = Roman Catholic vesper/evening prayer traditionally recited in Latin**


	17. King's Demesne

The first flakes of snow began to fall on the fourth day since they departed the farmhouse. The roads had already began to sink into mud, ensnaring boots and hooves, before soon hardening into freezing snow. At least, that was Jaune's experience when he was up in the principalities of the Rus'. He wondered if the winters here were as harsh as winters plaguing the lands beyond the Volga. Then again, the cold never stopped the Mongols.

Rather, those ruthless horsemen had used the winter frost to their advantage, traveling up the frozen tributaries to strike upon the unguarded flanks of many a Rus' fortress.

"...and that was how they broke the Rus'," the Frank concluded his tale, one of many that he ended up sharing over their journey.

Ruby and Blake sat atop a single saddle on another plodding horse, comprehending what they had just learned. Other than them, each one had their own steed with Jaune back in his saddle atop Yusehol.

"That's...terrifying," Cardin remarked. "They attacked them in their winter quarters."

"They're opportunists," Sir Ozma said. "Creative and ruthless. I doubt any of our leaders would have considered such an option unless the situation was ultimately dire."

"If you would, your horses would break through the ice and sink to the bottom," Jaune snorted. "They rode light and fell upon village after village, doing what they do best. No one expected an army galloping up a frozen river."

"And that's how you were caught," echoed Qrow.

"And how were you caught, Branwen _Ú_ _r_?" Jaune threw back. "Since you've already condemned yourself, why not share your secrets before the inevitable?"

The older Magyar laughed. "The Lord can take me at a later time. But I see your point. Fine. I was captured months before you were. I was with the Cumans further east, holding back the tide you could say. They lost, they fled, I thought maybe my time had come so I stood my ground. Prince Batu was leading the Mongols at the time and I guess I impressed him enough that I was pressed into their ranks. Of course, it was that or my head."

"You sold yourself to those heathens?" Cardin gasped.

"Hah! I'd rather go down fighting than be martyred in some camp," hooted Qrow.

"And what of Renkhai _Darga_?" Sir Ozma intoned.

Ren sighed loudly. "Me and my kin were assimilated after they boiled our chieftains alive in a large pot."

Silence save for the staccato of hooves over dirt.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ruby croaked.

"It is long since passed."

"I'm sorry about your father," Jaune said.

"He understands why I made my choice to stand with you, Jaune. I equally understand why he made his to stand with Subetei Ba'atar."

"And where does that leave you?"

Ren and Qrow shared a glance. The former shook his head when the latter shrugged.

"Pray for a warm greeting from the Magyar defenders then," the Templar told them. "There is only so much we can do to spare the wrath of an entire kingdom upon you."

"Well, isn't that a familiar feeling," chuckled Qrow.

"You are so used to being hated, huh," Blake remarked.

"Aren't we all by now?" Jaune spat.

"I don't hate you," Ruby echoed, stealing their attention. For a while, she sat in the silence of their stares, staring at the endless road that they were treading. "I don't hate any of you. Hate is such a strong emotion and...well, I sometimes feel bad for the Tartars. I guess I see them as being so...misguided?"

"You're just like your mother, you know that?" her uncle responded somberly.

"You know, mom never hated you for what you did," she said. "Even after you left, she still prayed that you'd come back. She hoped to go back to the good old days with dad and Yang and...and even Aunt Raven."

Jaune noticed how tightly the older Magyar gripped the reins.

"The love of God is what keeps us going," Sir Ozma intoned. "No matter what we've done."

"You've been more forgiving than most Templars I've heard of," the Frank remarked.

"Unlike many of my brethren, I believe wholly in the redemptive love of our Lord. It has changed me far more than when I had taken the oath to serve him as a warrior under the banner of Solomon."

"You were never like this, Oz," interjected Qrow with an agog leer. "Something happened in the Holy Land?"

Sir Ozma chortled quietly. "Indeed. I met someone there."

The implications were clear.

"I thought you were supposed to be chaste," whistled the older Magyar.

"As is the rule of the Order, my old friend."

"Friend, huh? I'm still a friend. Even after everything—"

"There was a pilgrim," the Templar started. "A fair maiden who had survived a Saracen attack. They struck her in the head enough to steal away her previous life. She no longer remembers her name, no family, no friends, not even the reason why she came to Jerusalem in the first place. Yet...she pressed on, hoping to regain her purpose or, to the very least, answers."

Glances were passed between the party, with everyone other than Ren knowing how strict the Knights Templar held onto the virtue of chastity.

Blake cleared her throat. "What became of her?"

Sir Ozma hummed a short tune before he did. "She kept pointing in the direction of the Holy City and saying that she needed to go there...even though she neither knew why nor what to do when we had arrived. Eventually, I had her brought into the care of the Knights of the Hospital of Saint John."

"You took her to our brothers and sisters to be cared for," Cardin reworded. "What then, sir?"

"She wanted to see me. To thank me. To...talk to me. She had no one else to turn to, no money to pay for food, no one who knew her. Of course, I consulted with my brethren and spent many hours in prayer and meditation until...I guess you could say it was compassion that had me acting as her guardian."

"Did she finally regain her memories?" Jaune asked.

The Templar shook his head morosely. "No. Even her true name, she still does not recall. It vexed her so much that she gave us a new one."

"She renamed herself?" Qrow snorted.

"It started as a joke at first but she took to it rather quickly. After all, all she talked about was the Holy City and how much she needed to go there."

"Pardon, sir. You mean to tell us that you named her Lady Jerusalem?" Ruby queried incredulously.

Sir Ozma laughed. "No, no. We simply called her Lady Salem."

* * *

The Great Hungarian Plain stretched for miles and spanned damp meadows that stretched over wide knolls, mushy hills, and thick swamps. In the distance hid faded mountains where many a fearful Hungarian fled to. Everything else was either rubble or a somber marker of where something had once flourished.

Jaune, Ren, and Qrow insisted on avoiding the route they had taken on their raids. Sir Ozma and Cardin conversely directed them along the highway frequented by the people fleeing westward. Barring a potential ambush by bandits or an attack by wild animals sheltering in some nearby cave, their journey was largely uneventful.

Most of the travelers they encountered either gave them a wide berth or waved away their queries, more concerned about their own worries. The few that did pause to give them the time of day offered information that, though dubious, at least eased their nerves: for several weeks, Strigonium had been storing food, shoring up its walls, and levying defenders in anticipation of a Tartar attack. The shoddily protected outskirts surrounding the castle of King Bela IV was now becoming a bastion for the many survivors seeking refuge. Mercenaries, adventurers, and poor sinners seeking penance were swelling up the warriors garrisoning the city. Even then, there was still tension between the local Magyars, the reviled Cumans, and the Bela's knights.

Worst of all, however, was the threat of famine. The omens had foretold it, they travelers said. With winter coming and the Tartars burning everything in sight, there was great concern that the food being gathered would not be able to last the city through the winter, much less the fortunate souls living within Strigonium's inner stone walls.

Of course, Ruby had her own questions. To which a miser responded: Sir Xiao-Long and his daughter were devoting their every waking hour assisting as best they could. To the townsfolk, it was understood that the pair were still in mourning after the loss of young Ruby to the Tartars. Sir Xiao-Long began laboring intensely in the wheat fields as penance for neglecting to protect his child while his only remaining daughter, her infamous flame put out, busied herself with chores and other menial tasks.

The miser did not recognize the girl he was conversing with, instead expressing how touched he was that a stranger shared in the burdens of others. As a token of his appreciation for their mercy, he blessed her in the name of God and gifted them a basket of freshly baked bread and a skin of ale.

Not long after they parted ways with the miser, Ruby broke down, weeping against Blake's shoulder. They decided to pause in their journey, dismounting and resting on the side of the road. Sir Ozma, the most pious among them, offered prayers on her behalf as well as the rest of them.

* * *

The following week passed with them plodding at a walking pace.

More than once, wolves forced them to cross a different path. A few times, a bear had blocked their path and had to be chased off or beaten back. Sometimes, the roads themselves were warped; a thin bridge collapsed, a narrow pass clogged by debris, or a hunter's pit left forgotten. Travelers who deigned to humor their queries offered nearly the same news: Strigonium was preparing for its greatest tribulation.

Still, that left time among them to learn about each other. Though there were reservations, they did put in an effort to understand each other's struggles. Jaune was encouraged not to frown upon his weaknesses by Ren who admitted to regaling in songs and poetry more than anything. Sir Winchester once again apologized to the Frank for the hardships he had given him in his younger years, sharing how he later endured penance while serving under the Hospitaller banner.

Blake, after much encouragement from Ruby, likewise apologized to Cardin for her hostility towards him and recounted her dreams of seeing Lombardy free from the bloody blades of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II. Ruby herself wished only to return to her family, to assure her father and sister that she was well, and to help as best she could as her late mother had often did.

With her mother on his mind, Qrow finally apologized for what he had done in the Mongol camp. Whether or not Ruby—or anyone forgave him—did not matter anymore. As long as he was there, he would never let any more harm befall the only people left to him at this point. The silence that followed lasted for minutes before Sir Ozma broke the quiet by proclaiming his forgiveness for his old friend.

Of course, these conversations came about as a means of enlightening their spirits after passing one too many burned villages. There was no denying what the Mongols were going for at this point. It was clear that Subetei's goal was not to take the Kingdom of Hungary piecemeal. Rather, the Tartar marshal intended to starve the kingdom to the point that another battle would be the coup de grace.

Snow began to paint spots over these desecrated farmlands. Broken carts were cast aside, heads of wheat had been trampled into the frosted sludge, and houses were either ransacked and burned to the ground. Whatever corpses had been left were either buried by passing travelers or devoured by wolves.

Come the tenth day of their journey, their small party encountered the first sign of Hungarian military power. Or what was left of it.

"Halt!"

Sir Ozma directed his horse at the head of their group with hand raised in greeting. "Hail, brothers! Bless you in the name of God!"

The handful of soldiers—hastily trained levies, they looked like—guarding the outpost sequestered within a forest grove signaled for them to dismount. The commandant, a knight clad in chainmail and a tunic dyed in the checkered red and white of the royal Hungarian coat of arms, emerged from his tent.

"Hail in the name of Christ," the Templar greeted again.

"Hail," returned the knight who was thankfully fluent in Latin. "You are entering the county of His Majesty Béla the Fourth. As such, you must obey our laws and submit to a registry by royal decree. This is for the safety of the land and her people."

There was hesitation there for the rest of them despite Sir Ozma happily agreeing to the demand. The Templar gestured at Ruby, guiding her off the horse, and escorting to the tent where a scribe was waiting. She was the first among their group to sit on the stool before the bored robed youth with the quill.

"Name?"

"Pirózsa Rubin."

"Pirózsa Ru—" The scribe stopped writing. He glanced back up at her, muttering her name over and over again as his eyes went wide. "Pardon me, I seem to have misheard. What again was your name?"

"Uh, Pirózsa Rubin," she repeated. "Ruby Rose, borne of House Rose."

The man gawked at her.

Ruby edged back. "Um, is everything alright?"

He quickly jotted down her name before resuming his queries in a rapid tone. "Where are you from, Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_?"

She shifted under the weight of her proper title, one that she had not heard uttered in a long time. "Strigonium."

"What year were you born?"

"Year of our Lord, one-thousand, two hundred and twenty-five."

"You are fifteen...just like the—ahem. Pardon, Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_. Who is your father?"

She gulped. Well, there is much to be said about honesty and Ruby had been raised to be honest when it came to the law of the land. Besides, what more did she have to lose by revealing her lineage? "Xiao-Long Taiyang _Ú_ _r_ , loyal servant-in-arms of His Majesty Béla the Fourth."

The scribe eyed her warily for a moment before writing that down. "... Do you haver a sister?"

"Yes. Her name is Xiao-Long Yang _Ú_ _rkisasszony_ , born two years before me."

The young man breathed deep, his quill dropping from his hand. "One last question. What happened in Strigonium on the autumn of the fifth year of the reign of His Majesty Béla the Fourth?"

Oh Lord above. No one could ever forget that. At least, not the people of Strigonium and the surrounding county. "My sister burned down a tavern after an altercation with the innkeeper and his helpers."

"... And—"

"That tavern was full of criminals and was always a cause of trouble for the whole county!" Ruby barked, leaping to the same defense that had been parroted by her sister and her father in the face of many an angry citizen. Besides, it was true. The tavern had indeed been a den of iniquity that sheltered thieves, brigands, and murderers. That reasoning, upon being proven to be true, earned Yang her first and only royal pardon.

The scribe opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Then glanced around before picking up his quill and setting aside his parchment. "Please wait here for a moment."

Ruby sat where she was, listening past the fabric, picking out the excited rambling of the scribe and the Latin exchange between Sir Ozma and the royal knight. Before she had a mind to get up and go outside, the scribe returned with a wide smile on his face. He was followed by the royal knight who, after leaning in close to study her eyes, stood back amused.

"So it is true," he remarked, amazed. "Welcome back, Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_. The silver child has returned!"

Silver child. Wow. It has been awhile. She almost forgot about that annoying nickname. With a smile of her own, she asked, "You know who I am then, _v_ _á_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_ _úr_."

"Who has not heard of the girl born with eyes like molten silver?"

"I see," she nodded. "So...have I been registered?"

"Yes. Your companions will also need to be charted. I am sure you understand."

"Yes, I do." Ruby held herself up, with her back straight and her face brimming with a bit more confidence than before. It had been a long while since she exercised some form of noble authority even if that authority was minuscule compared to her contemporaries. "Is there anything else you need from me?"

"Nothing more, Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_ ," dismissed the scribe.

"Three prodigal nobles, two Papal knights, and two mercenaries," loudly whistled the knight to himself. "To think we'd have another dull day at the border."

* * *

When they were registered at the outpost, Jaune, Ren and Qrow were keen to leave out any mention of their involvement as slave-warriors for the Tartars as well as fabricating and embellishing other details that were inquired of them. Ren, in particular, worried the Frank the most due to his very Oriental face and the fact that he spoke Latin with a thick Tartar accent.

Yet, somehow, they had slipped past, even uplifting the spirits of the men at the outpost. Apparently, with the steady flow of refugees and the depressing news of settlements being razed or farms being raided had crushed the morale of a majority of the Hungarian king's forces.

Upon learning of Ruby's, Blake's, and even Jaune's noble bloodlines, a messenger had been sent to Strigonium itself to prepare for the arrival of important visitors as well as notify Lord Xiao-Long himself that his deceased daughter had, in essence, risen from the grave.

"We're now in the demesne of the king himself," Qrow remarked.

"Have you come this far when you were scouting?" asked Cardin.

"No. The farthest we got was about half day's worth of riding from that outpost we just passed."

"This is the first time I've ever been this deep in the kingdom's borders," Jaune said, taking in the worrisomely barren farmlands and the laborers mulling over this season's poor harvests.

"You never passed through here on your way to the Rus'?" Blake inquired.

"I took a more dangerous route."

"You were with the Teutonic Order at the time, yes?" Sir Ozma said. "You passed through the lands of the pagan Balts, yes?"

"Yes. It was...fascinating and terrifying but I somehow made it to the lands of the Novgorodians. From there, it was one job to another. Town to town, principality to principality."

Ren hummed loudly, caring to avoid the curious stares of some of the locals. It seemed concealing himself under a hooded cloak roused more attention than deflecting it. "These people...they're already starving."

Blake held out her hand to catch a snowflake. "Subetei's plan is working."

"More people, less food, little help, all constituting troubling news," Cardin noted grimly. "This winter will cripple with the kingdom."

"And we're going to be in the thick of it if Subetei makes his move," Jaune concluded.

" _If_ he makes his move," Qrow countered. "We can't really know that."

"He's settled in for the long game. He has the means to siege a city, Qrow. And we are riding right into the middle of his grasp and—"

"And you need to stop worrying," hissed the older Magyar. "Grow some backbone, Arc. Have some faith in the only people in Europe who are holding back this menace. You know that if Hungary falls, then Croatia will follow. And then Venice. Then the holdings of the Holy Roman Empire, even the Lombard cities and the Pope are going to be under threat."

"So what's your plan then? We're here now in Strigonium."

"We help His Majesty defend his kingdom."

"Look around you," Jaune snorted. "With the way things are, I don't know how we could mount a proper defense. Remember Lignicka and Mohe?"

"You seem to have forgotten one important factor, Jaune."

"What's that?"

Qrow turned his head to regale the Frank with a grin that he could only recognize as that of a predator stalking his prey. It unnerved Ruby, disturbed Blake, and put off the Cardin and Sir Ozma. But Jaune and Ren knew that look. They had seen that before, when the frenzy was high and their knees were soaked in blood from the killing.

"We know exactly how the Mongols fight," he began. "We know their secrets, their dirty little tricks, and their weaknesses that no one sees. We know the mistakes Subetei made when he attacked at Lignicka."

"Subetei Ba'atar may be wise," Ren added. "But he is as fallible as the men as he has bested in battle."

"You're not going to bargain with the king over this, are you?" asked Blake.

"If it comes to it, then we would," answered the former darga dryly. "I trust that your lords are wise enough to consider what we have to offer."

"Assuming they don't throw you to the wolves," Cardin grunted. "Last I recall, the king's court was in a panic."

Ruby flicked away bits of snow that had piled in the creases of her dress and the folds in her sleeves. Then a thought came to her. "My father is a castle warrior. He's a respected courtesan. If we can get to him then maybe we could—"

"That's the plan, Pirósz." Qrow interrupted, riding ahead upon reaching the end of the wall of trees that had obscured much of the plains they passed.

He rode on, stopping only at the fork in the road with his head locked at an angle, concealing the vestiges of a growing smile. When the group caught up with him, they too paused to gather their wits for in the distance, situated on the banks of the River Ister was the city of Strigonium with her many hovels lapping up the water's edge all the way up to the mighty hill upon which was entrenched King Béla's mighty stone citadel.

"There it is," breathed Jaune.

"Home," Ruby muttered softly.

"Another day's ride away it looks like," guessed Ren.

"A full gallop might take us there by nightfall," Cardin mused.

Qrow whistled, yanking on the reins with unnerving excitement. "Never thought I'd get this close, much less closer."

"Should the Lord smile upon us, perhaps we can get an audience with His Majesty himself," Sir Ozma opined. "After all, as you said, Qrow, we can expose the Tartars's own Achilles' heel."

"Of course, whether King Béla is going to listen to us is up to him," grunted the older Magyar.

The Frank grunted. "Pray then that he would."

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: April 27, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: May 22, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: May 22,2020**

**NOTE: I'd like to acknowledge an old reviewer from the earlier chapters of this fic on FFN, _Chocolate Confectionaries_ , for providing Ruby's Hungarian name: Pirosza Rubin.**

**The party has now arrived in safer lands. Then again, the king's demesne may not be as safe as they hoped it was.**

* * *

**Translations:**

**_Ú_ _r_ = Sir/Lord [Hungarian]**

**_Ú_ _rkisasszony_ = Hungarian honorific denoting a young, unmarried noblewoman**

**_V_ _á_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_ _úr_ = Sir Knight [Hungarian]**


	18. Strigonium

Strigonium was as majestic as Ruby said it was.

Solid stone foundations supported sturdy timber hovels stretching across the banks of the River Ister. Thatched and hay roofs stretched from one side to the next with their trusses and chimney smoke doing little to diminish the citadel on the hill. The banners of the royal houses and noble families colored many of the wealthier walls but it was the standard of King Béla IV rippling off a royal guardsman's lance that had reminded the group of how much they missed the air of a Western feudal realm.

However, it seemed that they would have little time to enjoy the sights on their own time as they were coddled in the streets by an overexcited crowd. Peasants, slaves, levies, and even the king's men jubilantly welcomed them, waving their hands, their colors, their swords, and their spears in adulation once they had crossed the bridge over the River Ister.

It seemed word of their return sparked a frenzy. House Rose may not be as influential as the others in the court of the Hungarians but word of a prodigal child returning alive and well from the hands of the Tartars—from death and Hades itself—was news so cathartic that it warranted a celebration from even the most impoverished.

Jaune found it suffocating. As did Qrow and Ren who seemed to hide deeper under their hooded cloaks. Ruby, however, humbly basked in the glory, waving back and smiling awkwardly while Blake held the reins of the horse that carried them both. Ozma the Templar and Cardin the Hospitaller paved the way for them, as was their custom as Papal knights.

By the time they reached the base of the hill, they were met by the king's guard on their mounts. Their commandant, adorned in glistening mail armor and bearing both the colors of the king's dynasty, reined in his steed at the threshold of the gantry of the outer wall surrounding the castle. He unclasped his helmet to reveal a face that greeted Ruby with utmost surprise and cheer.

“Pirósza Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_!”

For the first time since entering the city, Ruby called out to someone she knew. “Sirzju Gazjarik _V_ _á_ _rjobb_ _á_ _gy_ _Úr_!”

The horses plodded to a halt. Ruby and Blake slid off their saddles, the former rushing into the open arms of the landed knight who commanded the city garrison.

“So it is true!” harked Lord Gazjarik. “ _H_ _á_ _ll_ _á_ _Istenn_ _é_ _k_!You are alive, Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_!”

“I'm so glad to see you again, _Varj_ _ú_ Sirzju!”

Blake shuffled over to Jaune. “Ruby has a lot of friends in high places here.”

The Frank shrugged. “Her house holds influence. And her father is supposed to be one of the more notable defenders.”

“And these are your escorts, Pirósz?” inquired Lord Gazjarik.

Ruby nodded, dashing over to Yusehol and tugging on the reins. Jaune dismounted and was dragged by the arm towards the commandant. “This is the man who saved me—and inspired the rest of us to escape from the Tartars. Jaune of the Frankish House Arc.”

Lord Gazjarik jubilantly took the Frank in his arms. “Welcome and many thanks, Jaune, son of Arc.”

Jaune subtly slipped out of the embrace with an uneasy handshake. As much as brotherly kisses brought comfort and security, he was neither in the mood for warmth nor willing to trust strangers even among his fellow Westerners. He was not ungrateful though.

“I am honored to be here, milord,” he replied courteously.

The commandant gestured at the others. “And a great welcome to our heroes, servants of the Temple of Saint Solomon and the Hospital of Saint John!”

Both the Templar and the Hospitaller returned their salutes, dismounting themselves and handing the reins of their horses to the squires of the royal equerry. Ren and Qrow, however, kept under their hoods, sliding off their saddles and nodding gruffly at the knaves who approached to lead away their steeds.

“You must be their mercenary escort,” continued Lord Gazjarik. “Welcome. It is good to see more friends among us.”

Ren smiled thinly while Qrow only grunted his response.

“Not much for words, eh? That's fine. The reception has been overwhelming.” Lord Gazjarik beckoned for them to follow him up the hill towards the citadel.

“It's like they're hosting a lost princess,” Jaune remarked offhandedly to which Ruby jabbed him lightly on the arm.

“I'm not a princess,” she corrected softly. “Not that I want to be one.”

Blake chuckled. “A girl can dream.”

Lord Gazjarik chortled. “Pardon the townsfolk, my friends. It is just that...the people are in need of uplifting news. And the return of a deceased child has greatly stoked the hope that has been burning out over the past months.”

“In that regard,” Cardin said. “I do hope our presence here we will not be a bother.”

“Nonsense, brother. You are all welcome here.”

“But,” Blake piped. “There could be a famine and...”

“Ah, rumors,” dismissed the royal knight. “We have enough food for everyone. Come! The heralds have spoken of your arrival. His Majesty is eager to meet you.”

“But what of...?” Ruby trailed off.

Lord Gazjarik smiled and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_ , your father and sister have been informed. The revelry in the streets cannot be ignored after all. I have no doubt they are hurrying to meet you at the castle as we speak. It would do no good to keep them waiting, no?”

She made to argue only to be silenced by the touch of someone's hand on hers. These fingers coiled until she traced them back to Jaune who offered her a confident smile. No words were exchanged and yet she ended up lighter in the cheeks, in full view of everyone around them, including commandant and the rest of the king's men.

“In that case,” Ruby said, never once letting go of the Frank's hand. “Let us go and see my family. And His Majesty, of course.”

* * *

If the reception they received from the townsfolk was akin to that of Christ's return to Jerusalem on a donkey, then the recognition that greeted them at the king's palace would have been much in the way of the prodigal son in Christ's parable.

To Jaune, it was a breathtaking experience and one that he never thought he missed. The ornate floors, stained-glass windows, the fine masonry, and even the air itself—all of these he thought he would never again enter since his days in the Kievan Rus'. To Blake, however, it felt nostalgic. Her graceful gait as she stoically took in their surroundings wordlessly spoke of her longing to be back in the wealthier Lombard demesnes. To Ruby, it was Heaven.

Bump.

“Oh! Sorry!”

“No, no! I'm sorry. I should've seen you.”

Jaune sighed. “Think nothing of it. It's just...so overwhelming.”

“I know how you feel,” Blake replied. “Nostalgic, isn't it?”

The Frank nodded. He remembered they were stepping on carpet and almost felt the urge to unlace his boots. Instead, he felt a tug on his wrist and remembered that Ruby was pulling him along.

Behind him, he caught sight of the guards standing at attention in respect to the Papal knights striding in their midst. Though, he guessed they were not as excited when Qrow and Ren followed after, remaining as shadowy as thieves despite Lord Gajzarik's declaration that they were friendly mercenaries. Lord Gazjarik himself marched gallantly ahead, opening steel bolted doors and escorting them into the Hungarian royal court and ultimately to King Béla IV himself.

Jaune and everyone in their party bended their knee before the monarch who, surprisingly, stood from his throne and descended down to the floor to meet them with a warm, brotherly hug.

“Greetings!” bellowed the king, who appeared no older than Qrow or Sir Ozma. “Welcome, welcome, brothers and sisters! Praise the Lord for your safe return!”

The Frank, for his part, endured more than savored the strong arms of a powerful ruler squeezing the air out of him. A part of him derided the king's courtesy as flavor that he spared to every refugee who came running here. Ruby had gone on long enough about the Cumans and other poor folk scrambling to Hungarian borders to escape the Tartars.

“Pirosza Rubin _Ú_ _rkisasszony_ ,” King Béla said. “Welcome home, dear child.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ruby replied courteously. Smart move for someone who did not hold too high an opinion of her own liege, Jaune guessed.

“And our dearest guests! You must be Blake Belladonna of Lombardy, yes?”

Blake reciprocated the king's gesture. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is an honor to be in your presence.”

“House Belladonna, yes?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Very wealthy family, I have heard. I express my sympathies for your struggles with House Staufer. Such a shame that we have Christians going against fellow Christians when we have greater threats amassing on our borders.”

Jaune quirked a brow at that. It seemed that news of Rome's troubles also reached the Hungarians and that they at least had room to be sympathetic, much to Blake's surprise. She still carried with her that damned bag where she kept her family seal. Then again, he still had Saphron's ring hidden on his person.

“Ah, and how could I forget Ozma _Úr_ and Winchester _Úr_?” the king bellowed. “The Lord bless you both! We feared the worst when you did not return.”

The Papal knights bowed in return, exchanging the same pleasantries. Only when the monarch rounded on Qrow and Ren did Jaune feel his chest tighten. A glance to Ruby showed worry betraying her joyous facade and panic seeping off Blake's neutral mien. The worst came to mind—no one had yet caught on that the two were Tartar soldiers...even though they were no doubt branded traitors by the Tartars for aiding in their escape.

King Béla, however, saw them as friends and stretched open his arms. “Welcome, brothers!”

Qrow and Ren rose from the floor and finally loosed their hoods. The air in the palace suddenly became difficult to breathe in. Jaune shuffled between Ruby and Blake, ensuring to have both of them within arm's reach. Just in case.

“Welcome back, Branwen _Úr_. And you must his companion Rinai _Úr_.”

'Sir Branwen' and 'Sir Rinai' dipped their heads in response. Jaune, meanwhile, turned to Ruby who only shrugged. Welcome _back_?

“Do you not remember me, old friend? After all, I myself could not forget such a familiar face,” the king remarked haughtily.

Qrow snapped his head back up at him, crimson beady eyes scanning for hints of deception or malice. “Your Majesty?”

“Come now, Branwen _Úr_. How could I not forget the brother of one of my men's first wives? Ah, it seems time has dulled your memory. I forgive that. It has been many moons after all.”

Eyes gravitated to the grizzled Magyar slave-warrior. His unkempt beard twisted to accommodate the awkward smile that graced his lips. “Now that you mention it, it has been awhile, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed, my friend.”

King Béla, in high spirits, returned to his throne, barking orders to his servants and whispering a command to Lord Gazjarik who quickly departed with a contingent of the palace guard. Not too long after, a retinue of the palace keepers filed into the court, startling all in the party but the Papal knights. Jaune, Ruby, and Blake were draped in silk robes while Qrow and Ren were courteously freed of their ragged cloaks, exposing their outstanding lamellar armor.

“Fine choice in the spoils of war, no?” the king remarked jovially, gesturing at the glistening shells that protected the upper body of the two men.

Jaune, now seated by the long table with Ruby and Blake, eyed the Papal knights across from them. How keen of King Béla to recognize equipment unique to the Western realms. As far as Jaune was aware of, most of Latin Christendom's armies fielded hardened leather, mail, or steel plate. On the contrary, many of their Greek and Eastern brethren, alongside their pagan allies, were more fond of the looser, linked brigandines and silken tunics woven so thick they could catch an arrow.

“Jaune,” Blake whispered, leaning slightly to where her breath tickled his earlobe. “I think he knows.”

The Frank wiped his sweaty palms against his lap under the table. “The king's smart. I don't doubt that he thinks Qrow and Ren are soldiers defecting from the Tartars.”

“You'd think that? I know that look in his eye. He knows the armor, the curved swords, and even paused for a moment to study Ren's face. Jaune, His Majesty knows—”

“—and is keeping it secret for now. I can see that too, Blake. He's up to something.”

“He's always up to something,” Ruby muttered. “My father always said that there was a fateful reason for why His Majesty let the _Kun_ into our lands.”

“What was it?”

“The _Kun_ are vicious warriors. As barbaric as the tribes in the north. My father said that he wanted to use them as mercenaries to bolster our troops...or what was left of them.”

Jaune, Ruby, and Blake then fell into a stiff silence when the king began loudly calling for a feast on their behalf. The Papal knights seated across from them indulged the monarch while Qrow and Ren remained stoic at the far end, nodding back at the servants who poured their goblets full with wine and placed pillows and warm sheets around them.

It was as the festivities were about to begin when the doors creaked open and two people hurried into the court. One was tall, well-built, and drenched in sweat that had his tunic sticking to his bulging muscles. The other was a shorter maiden with a wild, unkempt hair bustling like a lion's mane down to the hem of her working dress. Both had come from the fields, apparently. And both were in crying tears of happiness when they saw Ruby rise from her place.

Jaune sat back and watched as Ruby Rose, daughter of House Rose, was reunited with Lord Taiyang Xiao-Long and his daughter Yang Xiao-Long.

For a moment, his fears and anxieties were dispelled by the wholesome picture. The three enveloped each other, wailing and speaking their own language. Sir Xiao-Long held onto his daughters tight, loudly whispering his love for them. Yang, a rather voluptuous maiden, was both laughing and crying while squeezing the air out of her younger half-sister.

Yes, half-sister. Because Ruby had regaled them on their journey here about the two women who bore him a child each and who both broke her father's heart.

Sniffle.

Jaune caught Blake wiping away a tear. His smirk widened. “Emotional, isn't it?”

“Melancholic, I would say,” she replied.

And like a candle whose wicker had burnt out, the warmth of the reunion cooled when Qrow stood up from his seat. Taiyang was already pacing towards him. Not those wide angry strides but in slow, cautious steps.

“Qrow,” the castle warrior greeted.

“Tai,” replied the mercenary.

“Welcome back.”

“Good to see you again, too.”

“ _Varj_ _ú_ _B_ _á_ _csi_?” Yang echoed.

Qrow took a moment compose himself. “Yang. How're you doing, _Kics_ _á_ _rk_ _á_ _ny_?”

Yang replied by wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. Meanwhile, Ren reciprocated Taiyang's greeting with a nod while the man proceeded to express his gratitude to Sir Ozma and Sir Cardin.

Amid the spectacle, Jaune felt Blake's nudge on his arm and he followed her gaze towards to the king on his throne, an unusual mien hiding behind his golden cup. The way his lips curled to his ears, how his eyes sharpened, and how his ringed finger scraped the stem of his goblet—this was not the face of a man delighting in the warmth of a loving family restored. Rather, the Frank and the Lombard were experienced enough to discern an impenitent opportunist.

“Jaune of House Arc,” bellowed Lord Xiao-Long.

Jaune stiffened in his seat and plastered on a smile to greet the father of his...slave? No. His friend. His dear friend. His dear female friend who often insisted on laying with him but doing nothing more than sleeping on his side. The thought of it made him pale.

“Thank you for saving my daughter.”

The Frank let himself be pulled up into the man's arms. Though the odor was intolerable—the man had come from toiling in the fields—he kept nodding and smiling until the castle warrior released him with a grin wider than anyone present.

“And you must be Blake of House Belladonna.”

Blake bowed and was given courtesy by the noted castle warrior.

“Thank you both for saving my daughter. Oh, what am I saying? For saving yourselves, too! Lord knows you were suffering as much as my Pirósz.”

“We did our best to help each other,” Jaune replied diplomatically. Lord above, it was overwhelming how easy it was to talk to someone who was not a Tartar. “We survived together.”

“That you did.” Lord Xiao-Long turned to face Qrow. “That you all did.”

Jaune and Blake both caught movement behind him. It was Yang. And she was beaming. The rather voluptuous girl waved her hand then twirled her fingers to point at them before ending with a wink. A harlot's wink, it seemed, as Ruby suddenly came up beside her horrified with cheeks redder than the tips of her hair.

“I want to say thank you, too,” Yang said, bowing before them.

The Frank had to glance away a bit—her dress was a little loose in a certain area. “You're welcome, Miss Xiao-Long.”

“The troublemaker has regained her fire,” crowed King Béla.

Yang and Ruby froze up and faced the monarch with backs straighter than a lance.

The monarch laughed. “I jest, I jest. It is good to see life in your eyes again, child. Though I do hope that your rekindled fire will not burn down another tavern.”

The half-sisters exchanged awkward laughs until the doors once again creaked open.

It was Lord Gazjarik and he returned with another nobleman, this time adorned in plate armor shinier and bulkier than the rest of those present. A straight short sword hung off his hip while three pages followed after him with his polished helmet, his scabbarded claymore, and his heavy kite shield. His face, however, radiated such authority that Lord Xiao-Long, Sir Ozma, Cardin, and even Qrow stood at attention.

Jaune stood up as well, noting the colors on the man's shield: yellow with horizontal stripes of red. These were the colors of the Kingdom of Aragon.

“Simeon _Ispán Úr_ ,” greeted the king of Hungary. “Come! Sit. Let us feast.”

“At a time like this?” retorted the ispán in a thick Iberian accent. “You know our provisions are running dry, Your Majesty.”

“We can spare enough for this moment,” the monarch countered. “Only enough to celebrate the return of a prodigal child, a blessing from God in our time of need.”

The Frank felt his chest tighten when the ispán turned to them. The man had eyes like molten steel and he bore into him so fiercely that the palace almost felt like a crucible. Then he turned to Blake whose natural defiance faltered. Then to Ruby who nearly squeaked under the pressure. Sir Ozma, Cardin, and Lord Xiao-Long were spared such glares because of their standing as noble fighters. But when his attention fell upon Qrow and Ren, his scowl flashed into a full sneer.

“Prodigal indeed,” he growled through gritted teeth.

“Come now,” the king goaded. “You're getting worked up too early in the day.”

“It has been a long day.”

“And you need to unwind. We have guests.”

The man gestured to Ruby. “Guests, hah! The silver child, I recognize. Our brethren serving the Pope, I recognize. But these...men of the east? I'm starting to think you're hiring whoever comes knocking at your gates, be it friend or foe!”

“I see no foes here.”

“Your Majesty, have you forgotten our little problems with the _Kun_?”

“Water under the bridge, Simeon _Ispán Úr_.”

“Simeon _Ispán Úr_ ,” politely intruded Lord Xiao-Long. “My daughter has returned with the company of others who suffered with her.”

“We are all suffering, Taiyang _Várjobággy_ _Úr_.”

“Perhaps a moment of levity!” Jaune blurted. And quickly realized his mistake. He bit down on his tongue as he feared the wrath of the man that had contemporaries like Lord Xiao-Long and Lord Gazjarik fidgeting in their hoses. Even Cardin looked away, sweating into his cup, and he was a tough Hospitaller knight.

“You speak the common tongue very well, boy,” the ispán said coldly.

“I'm not a b—”

Ruby cut Jaune off. “I taught him!”

This time, almost everyone in the court regarded her with curiosity.

“I apologize,” she stammered. “I did not mean to b-be rude. I meant that I t-taught him some of o-our w-words and I—”

“Don't be so hard on them, Simeon _Ispán Úr_ ,” the king snickered haughtily. “Today is a day of merriment. Let us be merry.”

The ispán growled again. He dismissed his pages and took his place beside Sir Ozma on the other side of the table. “So be it. As His Majesty welcomes you, so do I, Simeon of Aragon, Count of Strigonium, servant of His Majesty Béla the Fourth, welcome you.”

Jaune and Blake bowed uneasily. This man was the steward of the king's demesne and henceforth was the marshal of all the troops and levies in the county, subordinate directly to King Béla IV himself. It made sense why he was so cold towards them; Count Simeon was rightly suspicious and did not appreciate his time being spent indulging in feasts, especially with people who could very well stab them in the back later on.

The Frank sat back down to find himself being squeezed from all directions; Ruby to his right, Blake to his left, Yang studying him from not too far off, and the eyes of Lord Xiao-Long constantly hovering over the three of them. That was not to mention the unnerving staring contest between Ren, Qrow, and Count Simeon. No matter the bard or the sumptuous food, the festive air in the palace tasted like sour Tartar horse milk.

“Now then!” lively bellowed King Béla. He raised his golden goblet. “With all that out of the way, let us toast to the safe return of our people!”

Safe return, indeed, Jaune did not say.

* * *

**ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: May 21, 2020**

**LAST EDITED: June 18, 2020**

**INITIALLY UPLOADED: June 18, 2020**

* * *

******Translations:**

**_H_ _á_ _ll_ _á_ _Istenn_ _é_ _k_! = Thank God! [Hungarian]**

**_Kics_ _á_ _rk_ _á_ _ny_ ( _Kicsi_ \+ _s_ _á_ _rk_ _á_ _ny_ ) = Little-Dragon (Little + Dragon) [Hungarian]**

**_Ispán_ = Count [Hungarian]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I'm committed to be less historically accurate with this fic, I can't help scratch my head at putting Tai and Yang as native Hungarians when their names are clearly Chinese. But that's just being too nit picky, I guess. Besides, my only source is Wikipedia (and some of the accessible sources in the article footnotes) and there's only so much reading and studying I can do before I burn myself out.
> 
> I was also wondering if I was expositing too much. I like to use my writing as a way to subtly teach unknown bits of history but I don't want to overdo it (i.e. over-immersion, over-exposition). I'm also limiting how much foreign phrases I can squeeze in. Flavor is good. Too much flavor, not so.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for investing your time to read this and I'm glad to know some of you are enjoying it. We're reaching the high point of this story and if you know the actual history of this part of Hungary, then you can expect how this is going to end. Then again, I won't necessarily be sticking to what was written by the chroniclers of the time.


End file.
